Fervor
by TheChiRho
Summary: He lived. He's recovering. By definition, Francis Dolarhyde is regaining that which was once lost, but what happens when a man loses his mind? Is something as intricate as the human mind salvageable? Or better yet, can a man save his mind on his own?
1. Chapter 1

Do you ever just look at your hands?

Do you?

Probably not.

I mean, they're hands. Just hands, right? Just hands with lined fingers and nails and junk beached in the beds. Some are soft. Some are hard from labor, and I could go on, but this isn't some Dr. Seuss book for children, no, it isn't. Hands. Our hands. God, I know I'm rambling like I'm crazy, but isn't it funny how the little things, things that may occur every day in our lives happen one special time, one time a little different than the past hundred times, just once, and we remember that moment forever?

I think it is. Funny, I mean. I think it's funny how one instance can be so impactful, so impactful that time seems to slow when we experience it. It's sort of like magic.

Now when I look at my hands, I think about it all the time. My hands experienced a touch of magic once. I think of a certain touch that was different than the rest, and how it tickled the tip of my finger on a cool, rainy night.

"And here's your room."

She said it in a way that was meant to be presenting, as if the room was a gift to be judged by me and me alone. That's what I suppose hosting your home is all about though. Hoping and praying that what you have is good enough for the guest. It was a statement, but I couldn't help but detect the slightest hint of a question in her voice.

The room was quaint, but I was satisfied. With one window and a shabby bed that took up most of the room itself, my brother-in-law's study turned living space was just what I needed. The walls were a pale, sand color with pictures from their trip to Uganda displayed everywhere. Pictures of little children with bright teeth and sunshine eyes being held in the arms of my sister and other social workers. My sister loved that trip very much. Even though she went five years ago, she still mentions it at family gatherings. We tolerate it.

"I like it," I replied lightly as I set my bags on the bed. "It's got personality."

"Good! Part of me worried that you wouldn't."

"'Cause I'm so picky?"

"No, because I know you hate the color green," she mused, her eyes pointing to the comforter. "But, if you like it, then you like it. I'm just glad you're here, finally."

My eyes playfully rolled at her words as my fingers moved to unzip my luggage. Dominique, my older sibling, lingered in the doorway, her hazel gaze palpable on my skin.

"What?" I asked dully without meeting her stare. "Out with it."

"Nothing! Nothing. I'm just wondering if maybe you want to get more settled in tomorrow as well. You know, relax, sleep in-"

"And then what? Be bored?" I quipped. "I should be bored out of mind when I _could_ be assisting one of the greatest doctors in the Midwest, who happens to be a woman, at a psychiatric hospital? Instead of immediately boosting my resume tenfold with an internship, a unique one, mind you, I should sit around and chill with my Netflix account all day on your couch like some jobless loser?"

"Hey, one, I'm not a doctor. Counselors are-"

"Same thing."

"No," she sighed. "They're not. And two, I'm not saying you should be bored. Nor am I saying that you should miss any of your internship. What I am saying is that you don't have to hit the ground running. I mean, you just got here. What's one day?"

A huff of air hissed past my lips as I stopped unpacking. My gaze met her own.

"I don't need any more days," I said. "I'm fine."

At first, I feared that my answer wasn't good enough. I saw her head tilt in the slightest and her fingers reach up to twirl a piece of her long, auburn hair. I frowned immediately. It's her giveaway, those two things. The head tilt and hair twirl combo. That's when I know she's in counselor mode, when she's using those observant eyes and engine of a mind to dissect me. Despite it, however, I pressed on.

"Everyone has been supportive. Really. They've been awesome and I appreciate all the love and stuff, but honestly, I just want to be-I don't know. I just want to start my internship. I just want to _do_ something else, you know? I'm sick of simply existing."

When I finished, there was an unmistakable pause. It had some weight to it. It held the atmosphere of the room together as I watched my sister absorb what I said, process it in that type-A mind of hers, and then finding some conclusion that satisfied.

"Okay," said Dominique. "Alright. Whatever you say is best for you, we'll do it."

Slowly, I exhaled.

Then, with a smile she added, "But don't think that just because you're my sister I'm going to let you get away with shit, alright? I help run a serious hospital, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," I murmured. "Policy and whatnot. Where's Henry?"

"Business trip. He'll be in on Wednesday."

"Not here to greet me," I breathed in mock disappointment. "Well then, I guess that means you gotta divorce him."

"Yeah, I guess so. You good here?"

"Golden."

"Great. See you tomorrow, bright and early. Love ya, Al."

At last, my sister said goodnight and quietly shut the door behind her. Lying in bed that evening, I wondered about the next twenty four hours, wondered about the things that I may see, hear, and learn about. Sleep didn't come easy, and just when my eyes shut I felt as if they immediately had to open.

Arriving in St. Louis from my parents' house in Denver was a small culture shock, but overall a welcomed change. The architecture was pleasing to the eye with its iconic Gateway Arch yawning on the horizon, as well as the many carved buildings that lined the paved roads and sidewalks. I was promised a real tour by my sister and her husband, and I prayed that it would show off the city better than my commute to the facility did. The forecast called for a heavy downpour that morning, and though I was impressed by what I could see, as sheets upon sheets of rain fell from the sky, they muddled the view from the car window. In an odd way, however, the weather was sedating. My nerves tingled like the blue electricity that shot across the sky.

My commute ended at a large, aged building that rested in a less populace section of the city. Traffic eased and as I parked in the Visitors lot, my eyes marveled at the site. The reddened bricks of the building spoke of decades of battling the elements, and ambitious green ivy climbed up its walls. But, judging on the updated signs and neat, green lawn, the St. Louis State Hospital for the Mentally Ill was certainly not neglected.

It was eerie though. Between the rain and my anxiety, while I walked towards the front entrance I couldn't help but stare at the gray windows of the building, the itch of possibly being watched by someone on the other side unsettling me further. It only worsened my nervous state, and by the time I was cleared by security, I could hear my own pulse.

Within the walls of the facility lived a homey, tranquil environment. At least, I believe that's what the State was trying to project on its visitors. The furniture looked comfy, and the lighting dim. The doors were all made up of a beautiful stained wood, expensive. I dripped down the halls past ornate plaques with calming proverbs carved into them, my priority being to find my sister's office.

I didn't have to travel far. I heard her long before I saw the sign indicating her work space.

"No, I don't care who he is at all!" she bellowed. "He can shove his book up his ass if he thinks it's a good enough reason to let him into _my_ wing!"

I chose to wait in the hall until she finished. I knew better than to throw myself into the hurricane.

"…only a little over a month," I heard her say in a lesser volume. "They said that he's much more stable than when he first came in, and that the rest should be a cake walk, but God, this one won't even _look_ at me. It's like he's afraid or-Oh, shit. I have to go. My sister starts her internship today and I need-Okay, thanks."

Immediately after that conversation ended, I was called to come inside.

"How'd you know I was out there?" I asked with a cautious smile.

Without looking up from her desk, she answered, "I could see shadows under the door. Assumed it was you. Sorry, but today is going to be busy. You can hang your jacket there by the door."

Her hand was moving quickly across pages and pages of paper, her signature being the only consistent thing about them.

"What's all this?" I asked as I took a seat from across her desk. I eyed one page that appeared to be a case note.

She sighed dramatically.

"Would you believe me if I said that all this paperwork is for one single person?" she asked. "All of it! Just for one man. It's ridiculous."

"Who?"

Before responding to me, Dom glanced at her watch.

"Dammit," she said. "Don't have time to talk. Come on. Follow."

And without any explanation, my sister abruptly rose from her leather chair and crossed the office towards the door. I quickly followed close behind.

We moved down the olive green hallway, down two flights of stairs, across a foyer, through four card locked doors, and into a room that's walls were clearly made of concrete. My pulse was racing, but I asked nothing. I simply listened.

"You arrived at a great time," she commented as we moved. "My session with the hellion giving me so much damn paperwork starts in five minutes."

Almost as if chosen by random, my sister stopped walking and reached out towards the nearest door. She then held it open for me. I blinked.

"For you, my dearest Alexandra," she announced. "You get to meet the man responsible for all my latest migraines."

"Why are you talking like that-"

"Because with a job like mine where I deal with sick men and women coming from childhood trauma, young sibling of mine, you have to be a little weird or you'll go crazy like them. Please sit down."

I frowned and entered the room. It was dark, and sure enough, there were two folding chairs inside. They faced a clean, glass window that took up a whole wall, and it was then did I realize that I was placed in an observation room. On the other side of the glass was a simple table and two chairs facing across from one another, except these bits of furniture were bolted tightly to the cement floor. When I sat down in one of the seats on my end, my sister closed the door. Alone on the cool metal of the chair, I waited.

A door opened on the other side of the glass. In walked my sister, who winked at me through the window. Dom then proceeded to sit at one of the bolted seats and relax, her face smoothing into a neutral mask of indifference. A moment later, a loud buzzing sound sang out, and a door on the other end of the room loudly clanked open. Two muscled guards walked in, their expressions serious and intimidating, but their hard stares weren't aimed at my sister. No, they were directed at the being who came in after them.

"Hello, Francis."

Immediately, my eyes grew wide.

The man across from her didn't respond, which only added to how intimidating he appeared. With soft steps and the jangling of his chains that were fastened to cuffs on both his wrists and ankles, he slowly made his way to the table and proceeded to sit down. Even seated, it was clear that he easily towered over Dom, his muscled body and broad shoulders emphasizing the need for the restraints and guards.

If I didn't know any better, I would say that he had a handsome face. A nice jawline and short, dark hair, though it was a little longer than the mugshot from the news story. Smooth skin. Long lashes. The shadows of the room intensified his features, one in particular being a hair lip scar on the right side of his face. It was an imperfection, the reddened scar, but in my opinion, it wasn't too distracting. He had another scar, I noticed, a long one that cut across the left side of his throat. It was reddened, too, and still appeared to be healing.

To see him alive and in the flesh was surreal. The pictures in the news made him appear so normal, and to be frank, he wasn't ugly. The only unattractive thing about him seemed to be his sour mood as those piercing blue eyes of his glared into the surface of the table, his brow stern and furrowed deeply as he avoided my sister's own stubborn gaze.

"Francis," began Dom. He didn't look up. "This is our fifth session together, Francis. You know I'm here to help you, not harm you, and, just so you know, you have an audience today."

Again, not a word was spoken by the man in the white jumpsuit. I watched him glower into the table, his eyes not daring to raise away from it.

The man was clearly presenting nonverbal messages. Between his refusal to speak and how rigged he sat, the messages were loud and clear. He didn't want to be there. He didn't want to be near my sister. My mind thought on what my sister was saying before I entered her office. She had said that he appeared afraid of her, but I didn't think that Francis Dolarhyde, _the_ Francis Dolarhyde, appeared afraid of her at all. Not one bit. Hostile. Frustrated. Those words seemed more fitting to me.

After sighing, my sister said, "You know, there is a man who is interested in having a word with you very soon, a man that you probably have heard of, a Dr. Chilton? Your friend, Hannibal Lecter, is in his care."

At the mention of Lecter's name, the man's eyes instantly flickered up. My sister allowed a small smile to tug at her lips. I suppose she considered it progress.

"Dr. Chilton is very interested in speaking with you," she added. "But I gotta warn you, he can be very…aggressive in his methods. Unlike me, Francis, Dr. Chilton won't let you remain silent during your time with him. He feels that he doesn't owe you that."

Francis Dolarhyde narrowed his eyes at her last statement and returned his attention to the table. He didn't look away from it for the remaining of the hour.

Even though he never spoke, I was fully engaged in the session. The entire time that Dom was speaking to him, asking open-ended questions or discussing random news stories, I couldn't help but absorb every movement the man made. They were subtle. I knew that he wasn't tuning her words out completely. His jaw tightened and eyes blinked rapidly as he processed. His toes curled. His shoulders flexed, but something in particular interested me more than the other ticks. It was his fingers. Under the table, in his lap, he was fidgeting. Leaning forward and peering into the shadows beneath the table, I could make it out, the object of his unconscious interest.

"Well, that's all the time we have for today," announced Dom at the end of the hour. "Do you have any questions or anything at all to say to me, Francis?"

His fingers ceased moving as those intense eyes of his slowly lifted to look at the glass window. I swallowed. Though I knew he couldn't see me, I felt my skin crawl as his eyes lingered directly where I sat.

"Don't worry," she told him. "No journalists today. Just my sister. She's interning here for a few months."

I watched as his frame visibly relaxed, as his eyes faltered in their power. The guards then swiftly grabbed him by the arms, making him stand with a sort of unnecessary force. Francis Dolarhyde's face twisted into offense as they yanked him away from the table and towards the exit.

It was small, but I caught it. I caught him. With a hint of disappointment, I saw his eyes wander towards the floor beneath his place at the table, his brow, too, pulling together again in a fit of concern. My own eyes followed and saw in the shadows, something insignificant to the unobservant eye. In the next moment, the door buzzed again, and the notorious Tooth Fairy was escorted away from the room.

"Al, come in."

My sister's familiar grin replaced the mask as she quickly gestured for me to join her in the other room.

"Wasn't that exciting?" she breathed when I entered.

"God, yeah, it was! Was that really Francis Dolarhyde?" I said, my expression matching her own.

"Yep! I wanted to tell you, but I had to keep it a surprise! What did you think?"

"The man has a way with words," I mused while walking about the small room. "He doesn't seem to like you much."

Standing behind the seat in which Francis Dolarhyde sat was chilling. For so many months, families feared for their safety. For so many months, the FBI struggled to identify who the killer even was. I can easily recall such dark days. People took extra caution and news reels about at-home-safety played every other night. My parents would check on Dom and Henry frequently, my mother a wreck each time the news came on and mentioned the progress of the manhunt, or lack thereof. When he was at last captured, it was weird to hear how common of a man Francis Dolarhyde seemed. Quiet. Mild mannered. Respected in a sense by his colleagues. I thought of these things as I squatted down to find what I was looking for.

"That's the frustrating part," said Dom. "He's cooperative until it requires him to say something. Not once have we had an issue with behavior. His cell is spotless. The man even makes his bed every morning, but God forbid he say a single word to me."

I heard her, but I wasn't fully listening. That's possible, you know. To hear the words, but not process their meaning. I do that when I'm distracted, which isn't a strange thing to happen, especially when looking for something that was being played with by the fingers of the Midwest's latest serial killer. On the floor by the bolted chair was a strand of red yarn. Short, frayed, and with a small knot tied at the end, it was what I believe Francis Dolarhyde was toying with during his counseling session. It was his distraction, his escape. Or not. Maybe I was just romanticizing it. I didn't really know. Still, what I did know was that he appeared rather concerned about losing it when being dragged out of the interviewing room.

"I can't believe he hasn't said anything after five sessions," I told Dom, returning to the present moment. "Is that why a psychiatrist is coming in? To see if Dolarhyde will talk to him?"

"I guess," replied Dom with a tinge of disappointment. "If Francis doesn't respond to patient prodding, I'm scared to see what his reaction will be to Chilton's intrusiveness."

Rising from the floor, I tucked the string in my pocket.

"Francis," I mused. "I like how you call him by his first name."

"Yeah?"

We walked out of the room and back down the hallway side by side. Despite being in a mental ward, I felt oddly at peace alongside my sister. It was like we were bonding.

"I think it projects friendliness," she added.

"Do you think he sees you two as friends?"

She laughed.

"I don't know. I just don't want him to see me as an enemy. Now, we have a lot more to do. He's only one of many."

For the rest of the day, I observed and took notes on the daily workings of the counselors at the State hospital. Not all of the patients were criminal. Many were dealing with other forms of mental illness like depression, schizophrenia, or bipolar disorder. For those who had committed crimes and were seeking treatment, it was a rarity that they could see a counselor at all. Most were subjected to the attention of psychiatrists, a routine that my sister loathed. Her role as a counselor for the criminally "insane" was only called upon when such people were towards the end of their treatment, or, according to her, when psychiatrists felt that all the hard work was done.

Even though I was never bored by any of the other patients we saw, my mind couldn't help but think about Francis Dolarhyde and his string. It burned in my pocket, and multiple times I found myself twirling it around my finger as he had. I thought on how he didn't appear to like my sister, how uncomfortable he seemed after having some sessions with Dom already, like he didn't know her from Eve. Part of me pitied him. Part of me hated myself for it. Still, as the day dwindled and it was time to leave the hospital for the day, I settled on a mission.

"You ready?" asked Dom as she shrugged on her raincoat. "We're meeting Henry at that little Italian restaurant I was telling you about. I think you're first day calls for a celebration, don't you?"

"That sounds good," I said. "Text me the name of the restaurant and I'll meet you there. I need to use the bathroom real quick."

"Oh, I can wait so you can follow me."

"Nah, just go on and meet up with Henry. I'll be there in a few."

By that time in the evening, most of the workers in the hospital were heading home. Hallways were black save for an overhead light or two, and most of the facility doors were locked shut. The only people I did see were the security guards in the front foyer.

"Excuse me," I said to one of the men stationed near the doors.

A gangly man about my age with a greasy face and thin, oily hair looked my way expectantly.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Um, hi, my name is Alexandra Emme. I'm Dr. Ashe's assistant intern, and I was touring the facility earlier today and left something by patient holding and-"

"Follow me."

Before I finished my lie, the guard started towards one of the locked doors. Using his security key card, he opened it and kept on walking.

"So you're an intern, huh?" I heard him say as we walked.

"I am."

"How long will you be hangin' around here?"

"Um, a few months. Until December."

"Awesome," he then said with a lecherous look from over the shoulder.

I shuddered, my mind wondering if my experiment was even worth it at that point. Thankfully, the man didn't say anything else for a while as he escorted me through some more locked sections and hallways. After going down a couple of flights of stairs and reaching a concrete level again, the man stopped at another set of locked doors.

"From here there should be more men on duty," he told me. "If you have any issues, just tell 'em that Dillon sent ya'."

I forced a smile, even after seeing the crooked, yellowed grin on his face.

"Thank you," I said politely as he slid his security card through the holder.

Standing alone in a poorly lit foyer, I saw another desk station like where the guards upstairs were positioned by. However, unlike upstairs, no one was standing there. I blinked and shifted my eyes throughout the space, still finding no one to help me.

"Hello?" I called out awkwardly, praying that someone would step into the light and show themselves, or at least call back. Maybe I simply didn't see them. Maybe they were sitting behind the station napping or playing with their cell phone.

My legs took me further into the foyer, and unfortunately my hopes were dashed. I found that I was completely alone a few levels below the earth's surface within the belly of a state mental health institution. For a moment, I thought about turning around. Why did I even care? I shouldn't be down where I was. Especially, I thought, on my very first day. I wasn't thinking. I needed to leave. Just as I was willing my feet to turn me around, I felt it. The burning feeling in my chest, the instinct that my experiment might do some good, ate at my conscious. I might as well keep going, I then decided. I was already this far, and my sister had yet to text or call me. I still had time.

So, string in hand, I walked about the foyer looking for either a guard or a sign indicating where I needed to go next. I noticed that to the left of the desk station was a set of double doors. They didn't require any security clearance, and as I stepped through them I learned that the hallway past them had only one destination. As I approached the other end of the hallway, I saw a sign that read, "Patient Holding I-V." Finally finding what I had been looking for, I made my way down the hall and towards the door.

I stood before the entrance way to the holding room, my courage instantly faltering. My mouth felt dry, and I had to blink past some fear as it started to creep into my psyche.

I can still turn around, I thought sheepishly to myself. My sister might be getting worried.

As I fret, I noticed that one of the doors before me was slightly ajar. The moment grew even more ominous. I couldn't move. I couldn't will myself to enter, so instead of being a rational human being, which, let's be honest here, a rational human being probably wouldn't be in that situation, I decided to knock. With a hesitant fist, I knocked on the patient holding door like a dumbass.

"Hello?" I squeaked, berating myself the moment the word slipped past my lips.

I waited. I didn't hear anything.

Maybe I knocked too softly, I thought to myself. Maybe I wasn't bold enough. I tried again, this time with more purpose.

 _Knock. Knock._

I waited. Again, no response came from the other side of the door, but incidentally the door did creak open by about an inch more. Once again, I didn't move. For a moment, I simply stared at the gap, at the paleness of light past the metal threshold.

"Hello?" I questioned again.

No reply.

By that point, I felt beyond stupid. I thought of coming down to the cell block. Alone, and without anyone knowing where I was, not to mention I was probably breaking one or two rules by even standing where I was standing. There I was, just standing there and talking to no one for the last five minutes when I could be on my way to dinner with my sister and her husband. Plus, at the rate I was progressing with my stupid gesture, I would be there until my sister arrived the following morning for work.

Instead of waiting around any longer, because surely, someone was on duty, I decided to be brave and step through to the other side.

The room was quiet. I couldn't even hear the ventilation system humming above me like it seemed to do in every other part of the facility. The only noise that I was able to hear in the large, dark space was my own breathing. Even my steps, as soft as I made them, were impossible to ignore as I continued to carefully make my way into the desolate space.

Flecks of dust could be seen sparkling in the bright light above, the only light source in the entire room. It cast down on me as if the center of the room were a stage, instilling a greater sense of vulnerability. Shadows clung to the corners and walls of the room, making the size of it difficult to determine, but what I could recognize was a set of five cells all lined against one far wall. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that four of them were empty. One, however, clearly was not. There past the bars, I saw a dark figure sitting on the floor as far from the bars as possible.

"Oh, hi."

My voice was so weak that I hardly recognized it as my own.

The figure didn't move, nor did I receive a response.

"Um, are you Mr. Dolarhyde?" I said, my voice only a little less frail than my first attempt at communication.

This time, I saw that the person moved subtly, his head tilting in the slightest as he sat with his back to the wall of his cell.

"Well," I began, "If you are Mr. Dolarhyde, I came to deliver something to you."

Without taking my eyes off of the body in the cell, I extended my hand out so that the string could be in the light.

"It's not much, but I noticed that you had it during your talk with my sis-um, Dr. Ashe this morning. I thought that you might want it back."

For an entire eight seconds, I stood there with my arm out towards the darkness, towards the being that I didn't even know was the person I sought after. Just when I thought it best to turn around and never return, the body in the pitch slowly moved to stand.

Based on the silhouette alone, I knew that it was him. When he moved, I could see the outline of his long legs and broad shoulders as he walked closer to the bars of his cell, and when the faint light of the room touched his face, there was no second guessing who he was. Before me stood Francis Dolarhyde. Before me stood the Tooth Fairy killer.

His brow was as tightly knit as it was during his session with my sister, except instead of appearing threatening or hostile, Francis Dolarhyde wore a different expression. He looked absolutely confused, his eyes squinting at me while I squirmed under his scrutiny. Also, he raised his hand to his face, his palm cupping his mouth. It was a strange gesture, but I continued.

Twirling the string in my fingers, I asked "This is yours, right?"

I took a few steps closer to where he stood, hoping that he could get a better look at what I was holding.

"From this morning?" I added with a small smile.

I watched as his eyes glanced to the yarn.

"Mhm."

The sound was low and barely audible, but I heard it. It was definitely there. Without checking myself, my smile widened.

"Thought so," I said. "I saw that you dropped it when they carried you off, and I was on my way out and thought that I could come by and return it, if you don't mind me interrupting your night."

The man didn't make any effort to respond to me that time. He only kept staring, but it wasn't in a creepy way, nor like how that Dillon character ogled at me on my way down to patient holding. No, if anything, Francis Dolarhyde was looking at me like I wasn't even real, like I had manifested from out of the ground.

"Welp," I began. "Here it is. I need to go now, Mr. Dolarhyde. Thank you for your time."

With slow, careful steps, I approached his cell. Francis Dolarhyde held eye contact with me, the grip around his mouth tightening the closer I got. My hand was sweaty as I reached out towards the bars, and I dared not blink as I held the yarn out between two fingers for him, close enough so that he could grab it, but not close enough to where he could grab me. I waited. I watched as his eyes flickered between my face and my hand, as if debating whether or not to trust my intentions or not. Eventually, however, his other hand extended out through the bars and with great slowness, moved to take the string from my fingers.

And that was my moment. That was my instance of magic, that instance that was so different and peculiar than any other time that my hand had been touched before. In that moment when Francis Dolarhyde went to grab the yarn from me, instead of immediately retreating back to his cell, he lingered. His fingers, they hovered in the air around my hand. Suspended just within range, his hand moved so that his fingers gripped the tip of one of my own. Gently. Kindly, and with those ocean eyes of his gripping all of my focus.

"Th-Thank you," I heard a soft voice say behind his palm, the volume just above a whisper. "It was very _s_ wee- nice…of you to come."

His fingers were still holding me. Gently. Kindly. They were warm.

"N-No problem," I said back, finding my words. "It was my, my pleasure."

I then smiled, somehow, in all the fear that ate me up on the inside. Somehow, I felt that a smile was necessary in such a bizarre moment as this. And for a second, the tightness in his brow relaxed. I saw it. As he held my fingers and I stared into his fearful eyes, there was some form of a mutual understanding.

And then, the moment ended.

"What the hell!" cried a voice. "Back away from the cell!"

A man's urgent command cut into the tranquility, causing me to lurch and bump into a hard body behind me. Before I knew what was happening, two firm hands gripped the tops of my arms and moved me backwards. As they took me out the door, I saw one of the security guards step forward and swiftly bang on the bars of Dolarhyde's cell. The guard then yelled some profanities, but Dolarhyde didn't even flinch. His focus was elsewhere. He was still watching me, his face intense and brooding, yet his eyes were different. They had softened. I saw, too, that he had something in his hand. Something small and red.

And to this day, I swear on my life that I saw something that very, very few people on this earth had ever witnessed. Just as the door to the room was about to close, I saw a true rarity.

I swore I saw the man smile.

* * *

 **I don't own any rights to** ** _Hannibal._**


	2. Chapter 2

The last several days were starting to blend together like a painting washed in watercolor. The days were barely distinct from the ones before them. I shadowed Dom around the hospital, visiting the same patients who dealt with the same issues as the day before. Whether the patients were chatty or hardly coherent, it mattered little because there was always paperwork, and those case notes, drug sheets, and forms only made the process more repetitive and less exciting for me. It was becoming dreadfully monotonous, and when I delicately voiced my concerns, I was told by the counselors that the progress that the patients made now won't be as evident in the big picture until the following months.

Such news was borderline disappointing to me. I mean, I'm no idiot. I understand that such a field measures progress in small dosages. Maybe I thought there would be more action, that even though my sister was a counselor and her patients tended to be of the lesser violent variety, someone would be startling. Maybe I came in with too big of expectations, for as awful as it sounded, by the end of the first week I almost wanted the patients to have a major breakdown, to regress in their treatment. To claw at the walls. To pull out their hair. To speak abruptly to their imagined friends. To run down the hallways naked like they used to when 19th century mental wards were shitty. Not that such a scene was possible at the St. Louis hospital. Due to the high level of security and the great care the staff had towards the less criminal of their in-house populace, no such scenes could be found there. Still, a young hopeful like me can dream. As an ungrateful intern as I was, I thought of such selfish desires as Dom and I moved on to the next session, and the next, and the next.

One afternoon came quicker than they normally do, thank God, and while organizing my sister's latest case notes in her office, she divulged a welcomed change in the next day's schedule.

"So instead of my usual eight o'clock, we're going to observe a session down at another interviewing room. Like the one that you were in a week ago, only bigger."

"Sounds good," I said. "Who's your eight o'clock again?"

"Francis Dolarhyde."

"Oh."

Instantly, I rebuked myself.

"Don't you only see him once a week though?" I backtracked, trying and failing to mask my disappointment.

"Yep," Dom replied coolly, not even shifting her eyes to look at me. "That's normally the case, but this week Dr. Chilton is paying Francis a visit instead."

I immediately stopped what I was doing, and in that moment my eyes raised to stare at my sister, to really look at her. For Dom and me, we appeared to be related, but it wasn't a quick assumption made by new friends and acquaintances. We had the same wild eyes, the same tone of sun-kissed skin. Those were the obvious similarities, but with them came the clear differences in our appearance. Statuesque and with long, auburn hair, Dom was a gorgeous woman whose kind smile managed to lessen the fierceness that her hazel eyes portrayed. I wasn't nearly as tall as she was, and my hair was a much darker brown, not at all red. Also, I lacked my sister's naturally kind disposition. She seemed to brighten a room by merely stepping in it. I, on the other hand, have been told that I am a bit of an enigma. A man told me that once, right before saying that I had "bedroom eyes."

Always the professional, my sister. She wore lipstick, but it wasn't anything flashy or too fetching. The shade was a gentle rose color, and under my watchful gaze, I saw that one corner of that rose mouth of hers twitched tighter than the other.

"What's that going to be like?" I pressed. "Seeing Dr. Chilton with Mr. Dolarhyde?"

"No clue," she answered, almost too quickly. "We'll just have to wait and see."

Dom never met my stare, and seeing as the next words that came out of her mouth were about our parents and dinner plans, I let the subject go.

Almost a full week had gone by since I saw Francis Dolarhyde. Almost a full week had gone by since I stood alone with the Tooth Fairy, a claim that most people wouldn't be able to live up to.

Leaving the hospital that night after Mr. Dolarhyde spoke to me was like recalling a vivid dream.

Did it really happen?

Did I really hear him speak?

Did he touch me?

I kept doubting what I had just witnessed, what I had just felt. The moments were on repeat. In my mind I saw those Atlantic eyes of his and how uncertain he was of me standing in front of his cell. It was as if he couldn't believe I was there either. I recalled how his hand covered the lower portion of his face, how it trembled as it shielded his mouth from me. Maybe this was the fear that Dom was referring to. Doubtful, but he did seem on edge.

But then, as it were, I couldn't help but wonder one other thing: What harm could I cause a man held within the confines of metal bars? What on earth could he fear from me?

And it was so short, that moment. Part of me hated the guards for interrupting, hated them for doing their jobs. After removing me from the hall, one of them gave me a good reprimanding before sending me on my way. With a "yes, sir" and a formal apology, I left the hospital to meet up with my family at the restaurant. Dom never said anything about it, that night or the days to come. I didn't think the guards who found me told my sister about what happened. I prayed that they never would.

Unlike past mornings, Dom and I rode together the day of Chilton's interview. The radio was on and the mood was a somber one. It was raining, and once again, I was anxious as we drove to the hospital. To calm my nerves, I resorted to painting my nails in the car. A slightly messy ordeal, but I was desperate for a distraction. I was uncomfortable with my sister. She seemed so cold. Dom didn't say a word to me the entire ride to the hospital. She only drummed her fingers at every stop light, and cursed under her breath at the drivers who weren't going the speed she desired them to.

"He's already here," Dom announced once we entered her office. Her car keys dropped on her desk with a loud bang.

"Dr. Chilton?"

"Yeah, the front desk just texted me. Grab that folder there. We best not keep him waiting."

I barely had time to shrug off my jacket and do as I was told before Dom breezed past me. The hurricane inside her was brewing, I could feel it. Feel it in the way her heels clacked on the tile, how stiff her bottom lip seemed to be on her face. Dom was a beautiful woman, who, when bothered, could come off as frightening. Like a goddess of sorts, she had intent in every step she made. She made those confident steps all the way to the foyer.

Before entering the main area, however, Dom slowed her pace until she came to a full halt. She then turned to look at me.

"S'kind of weird, but I feel that I should warn you about something before we go in there," she said quietly.

"Alright."

"You know, don't you? You know what Francis did to Dr. Chilton?"

I saw anticipation in her eyes, how the energy of the subject danced within them. Perhaps they reflected my own, for as I recalled the headlines and the details of Dolarhyde's capture, a tickling sensation climbed its way up my spine.

"Um, yes," I answered. "I heard that Mr. Dolarhyde attacked him. Mutilated him, actually."

"Right," said Dom. "He suffered full body burns, and yes, facial mutilation as well, a serious one. The surgeries helped, but they can only do so much. I know that I don't have to remind you, but just try not to stare."

Not really sure what to say to her advice, I simply nodded before my sister led the way through the doors to greet the hospital's latest guest.

Standing on the opposite side of the foyer by three, tall windows stood a figure of average height. The sunlight made him a blackened silhouette.

"Dr. Chilton," greeted Dom with a pleasant smile.

Always so polite. The good sister.

The man immediately turned to face her. Dressed in a trim, gray suit and a striped blood red tie, Dr. Chilton dressed every bit the professional that his credentials called for him to be. His black shoes even shined. They glimmered as he stiffly bridged the gap between us and him to shake my sister's hand.

"Dr. Ashe," he said. "Good morning. And this is?"

Every bit of exposed skin on the man told a tale of great pain and suffering. His hands were peeling. The shriveled lines and flesh that surrounded his eyes and nose looked dry and multitoned, but to his credit if I didn't know of his recent torture, I would assume that the short wig on his head was his own hair. It was worth every penny. His mouth was another story. They, his manmade lips, were clearly the handiwork of an expert surgeon due to the precise sculpting and near seamless application. Even with mankind's best effort, however, the grafted flesh affected his speech, adding a weak inflection to some consonants.

"Hello, my name is Alexandra," I replied. "Alexandra Emme."

"She's my sister," added Dom. "And my assistant for the next few months."

"I see," said Chilton with something that resembled a smile. "You're very fortunate to have such an accomplished sister, Miss Emme. I believe that it's safe to say that this opportunity at the hospital would be a hard position to come across otherwise."

"I'm sure Alexandra would have found it one way or another," quipped Dom, maintaining a veil of cordiality. "She's very observational and empathetic. We're lucky to have her here."

"Of course you are," replied the psychiatrist. "I wouldn't want to sell you short, Miss Emme. Now, I hate to rush, but you can understand, I'm sure, how anxious I am to begin. Where is Mr. Dolarhyde?"

"This way. I'll show you."

Like a shadow, I followed my older colleagues as we maneuvered through the building towards the interviewing room. Instead of taking the stairs, however, the three of us along with a guard, rode a small elevator to the lower level. The guard looked familiar to me, but I failed to recall his name.

"Do you have the folder that I asked for over the phone?" said Dr. Chilton when the elevator doors parted.

"I do."

"Excellent. I would very much appreciate your insight, Dr. Ashe. Your attention and what relationship you managed to create with Francis Dolarhyde may prove to be useful one way or another."

Seeing as I was standing behind the good psychiatrist, I allowed a smile to spread. The man had a somewhat snobbish air to him. I heard it in his voice, in his off compliments. It wasn't out rightly rude, nor was it quietly subtle. We stepped from the elevator car and were walking down the cool hallway towards the interviewing rooms. Dom, I knew, could see me clear as day, but I didn't care.

"This folder and the rest of my notes are all yours, but to be honest, I doubt you'll find much use out of my session recordings," responded my sister. "As you know, Francis hasn't said anything to me-"

"Oh, I'm aware," said Chilton. "Still, even your notes might shed a small light on what sort of man Francis is since his encounter with Dr. Lecter and Will Graham. I imagine that we are not dealing with the same beast that the FBI had to wrestle with. Most likely, we're stuck with something worse."

Dom's brow furrowed for a moment before saying, "Dr. Chilton, despite what you might already know of Francis, he hasn't caused any problems since arriving in St. Louis. When treated respectfully, Francis-"

"Respect," said Chilton bitterly. "Is something that which is typically _earned_ , Dr. Ashe. I don't intend to simply give it away because he hasn't bitten anyone here. Yet. And although I've been told that hypnosis has resolved much of his identity-linked problems, such progress isn't enough to say that Francis Dolarhyde is by any means a good man. I'm sure you heard what happened when he was incarcerated in Buffalo, hm?"

Chilton's brown eyes were staring at me when he asked. Mine retreated to the tile.

"It was how he ended up here in St. Louis," he continued. "Gnashed his way into an orderly's face after complaining that his cell was too hot. The poor man, as moronic as he was to turn his back on Dolarhyde, never stood a chance. Dolarhyde's a behemoth after all. The worker lost an ear and a cheek."

Dr. Chilton then turned and opened the door to the interviewing room.

"DID diagnosis or not," he said. "The man is a criminal. He's a monster, and I intend to keep that fact well in check."

Before either of us could say anything, Dr. Chilton stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him. We were both stunned into silence. I was the first to speak up.

"Should, should we let him talk to Mr. Dolarhyde knowing that he has such a strong bias against him?" I asked Dom. "Is that fair?"

"Well," Dom said after a sigh. "You tell me, did Dr. Chilton say anything untrue about Francis Dolarhyde?"

"No, but-"

"The man murdered two families, Al."

She made sure to capture my full attention, unyielding eye contact to get her point across to me without much room for mercy.

"Two families with kids. He almost got to a third before he was caught. I mean, the man shot children in their beds, for Christ's sake! Now, regardless of what happened to Dr. Chilton, he's still a professional, and I trust that he'll keep any emotion he may have towards Francis in check. But remember this, okay, Al? Yes, we are in the helping profession. Yes, we do what we consider best for our patients, but we don't do it because it is the "fair" thing to do. For men like Francis Dolarhyde, there isn't such a thing as "fairness" anymore. Men like him tossed fairness out the window all on their own with their actions. From there, they have to deal with the consequences like everyone else. For Francis, sitting down with Dr. Chilton is one of them. Come on, they're starting now."

For a second time that morning, I didn't have the words to respond to my sister. I should've known then and there that the theme for the day would be confliction.

A bit setback, we both settled in the observation room. The chair was just as cold as I remembered, but I was too focused on what lied past the mirrored glass to really think about it. The buzzer had sounded, and in was walking Francis Dolarhyde.

"Good morning, Francis," said Dr. Chilton who stood behind one of the metal chairs.

Based on how the man frowned and blatantly stared at the one who addressed him, you would think that Mr. Dolarhyde didn't know who Dr. Chilton was. His steps ceased and his brow knit together. When he didn't move any further, the guard who rode with us in the elevator shoved him forward, earning a sharp glare from over the shoulder. Still, Francis Dolarhyde did as he was silently commanded, sitting across Dr. Chilton without further resistance.

"I see that you've kept yourself in shape since being incarcerated," commented Chilton.

As expected by me and most likely my sister, Mr. Dolarhyde said nothing. Like last week, the surface of the metal table held all of his attention.

"Now, now," began Dr. Chilton in a firm, superior voice.

He then slowly leaned across the table, causing Dolarhyde to shift his gaze upward.

"There's no need for that, Francis. Let's not make this conversation any more awkward than it already is. We can talk, you and I. Man to man."

The strong being in the jumpsuit seemed uninterested in any form of conversation. That scowl of his was firmly in place and his eyes narrowed at what Dr. Chilton was saying.

Remembering his string, I checked to see if he had it with him underneath the table. I saw it, the small threadlings of yarn, but his fingers had stilled.

"You do remember me, right, Francis?" asked Chilton calmly. "They told you I was coming. I know that my face is different, but the name rings a bell, doesn't it?"

I watched as Dolarhyde glanced away from Chilton's face, first to the side as if recollecting, and then to the window for some form of validation.

"You don't have to answer right away, Francis, don't worry. We have a whole hour, and there is no one is on the other side of that glass. You and I are alone. Man to man. No women this time."

"Women are fickle creatures, aren't they, Francis," continued the psychiatrist with an almost trivial tone of voice. "Even for a man such as myself who is well versed in the inklings of the human mind, women still leave much to the imagination as far as their reasoning goes. I imagine, even with your little experience, that the women who you've encountered have left you wondering, hm?"

Mr. Dolarhyde's eyes looked down at the table, then slightly to the mirrored glass again.

Did he know we were there? Despite what Chilton had told him, did Mr. Dolarhyde know that we were watching him? Waiting to see what would happen next?

I wondered if he hoped so.

"What is Dr. Chilton doing?" I whispered to Dom.

Turning to my sister, I saw that she seemed just as bothered as I was. I received no answer.

And then he said it. It was a short statement. A pointed one. An accusation that was very heavy in its intent. Dr. Chilton said a statement that I believe rekindled the fire inside Francis Dolarhyde that day.

"You hate women, don't you?" asked Dr. Chilton.

I swallowed, my eyes bulging and quickly shifting to see Dolarhyde's reaction. The tension Chilton's question caused felt like the static one feels before lightning strikes the earth. Dolarhyde had no obvious change in mood. His eyes widened briefly in shock and his posture straightened. Not much though. If anything, he looked just as unsure as Dom and I did. Little did I realize what emotion was really steeping beneath the surface.

Seemingly unaware, Chilton was still leaning halfway across the table, his eyes relentlessly boring into the face of the Tooth Fairy.

"I don't blame you for not wanting to talk to Dr. Ashe due to your history with the opposite sex," continued the psychiatrist. "She's smart, beautiful, and in a position of power greater than your current circumstance. You don't have to talk to her, but you will have to talk to me, and I promise you, Mr. Dolarhyde, how comfortable you will be during our conversations is entirely up to you. I know what sort of man you are, and trust that you will make wise decisions. Do you have any questions before we start?"

As his blue eyes broke away from Dr. Chilton's gaze again, Francis Dolarhyde shook his head. Chilton grinned at his response, but I didn't see anything to feel victorious about.

"Very well then," stated Chilton. "First off, let's-"

"What kind?"

The man spoke. Barely. It was so low, so quiet. I almost thought that I didn't hear it.

"Come again," said Chilton, the skin where his eyebrows used to be pulling upward. "Did you say something, Francis?"

The patient hesitated awkwardly. His eyes went to the window, almost pleading.

"Francis!" snapped Dr. Chilton, making all of us jump. "Don't look at that window. Look at me. Look at me and repeat what you said."

I turned to my sister again, awaiting a clarifying explanation for the foul tone in Chilton's voice. And again, Dom remained silent.

"Please," prodded Chilton. "Try again. What did you say?"

Dolarhyde's mouth twitched. The skin on his throat was textured with scars, and it bobbed as the man swallowed before he spoke again.

"What kind of man am I?" he questioned darkly.

Chilton limply shrugged one shoulder.

"Why do you ask?" he said.

"You s-said that you knew what kind of man I was," said Dolarhyde. "Tell me what you mean by that statement."

"Why, you're a man who has been through a vast amount of trauma. If we are going to dig at the bare bones of it all, it is evident from the remains of your own personal journals mind you, that most of it was experienced when you were a child. Long term abuse and neglect from the grandmother. That is, at least, believed to be one of the causes for your mental illness, Francis."

"But," began Dolarhyde. "But that doesn't mean that I hate women-"

"No, not necessarily," said Chilton. "Your actions, well, your past actions suggest that to some extent you admire them. In your own repulsive way, of course. However, I think that if you were honest with yourself, Francis, then you'd have to admit that part of you resents them. I mean, look how they've treated you! Your mother, grandmother, Reba McClane, all of them. They just couldn't love you for what you are. For what you were becoming."

"I didn't hate-"

"Speak louder."

"I didn't hate Reba," said Dolarhyde, his brow furrowing deeper and his eyes shutting as he did.

"Are you sure, Francis?" quipped Dr. Chilton.

"Mhm."

"Because, the last thing I learned about Miss McClane was that you lit a house on fire with her in it, yes?"

Francis Dolarhyde's eyes clenched so tightly as if he were in some sort of deep pain.

"Francis," chimed Chilton, "Yes or no?"

"Reba didn't understand-"

"Yes or no, Francis."

"No, I-"

"No, you didn't set the house on fire? No, you didn't try to kill Reba McClane?"

"I, I did try to kill her-"

"You what?"

"I didn't want the Dragon…No, _me_ , to hurt Reba-"

"Has she even visited you since you've been incarcerated?"

"What?"

"You heard what I said."

"No-"

"I can't hear you. Speak up."

"I-"

"Louder."

"S-Stop-"

"Louder!"

"No!"

"What does the Dragon say?" demanded Dr. Chilton, those dark eyes of his intense and brooding. "What does it say, Francis?"

They, his eyes, dared to stare into the eyes of Francis Dolarhyde in a way that didn't seem as fearful as I thought they would be. After suffering like Dr. Chilton had at the hands of the Tooth Fairy, the man that squared up against the Fairy now certainly wasn't trembling. Though Mr. Dolarhyde was seething on the other side of the table, Dr. Chilton's breath was level and demeanor in control. There was bravery there, a bravery that I couldn't help but admire in the man.

"I need that folder," he announced without averting his attention. "Send it in, please."

Dr. Chilton seemed to be waiting, and it wasn't until I felt a hand on my shoulder did I realize what it was he was waiting on.

"Give the folder to him," prompted my sister.

It took a second, but I realized that the folder that Chilton was referring to was the one in my lap.

"What?" I said dumbly. "Now?"

"He needs it. Go!"

As strange as the request sounded, I obeyed. Rising from my chair, I stole one last wary look at Dom before I left the observation room. I could hear my own heartbeat and feel my blood racing through me. With a sharp inhale, I turned the knob of the next room and entered.

"Ah, here we are," greeted Dr. Chilton lightly.

The door's latch clicked behind me as I took a small step into the room. The temperature inside was unignorably warmer and it was oddly quiet despite hearing Mr. Dolarhyde's shallow breaths from the other side of the glass. My eyes refused to look anywhere but at Chilton's red tie as I handed him the folder.

"Thank you, Miss Emme," said Chilton. "Your services are appreciated."

I nodded my head and dismissed myself. It wasn't until I was back in the observation room did I allow myself to breathe regularly.

"Sorry for the interruption," Dr. Chilton said flippantly as he fingered through the folder and downcast his eyes.

"You said-"

"Hm?"

A pause. Dr. Chilton didn't even acknowledge Mr. Dolarhyde. Probably a good thing given the heat in Dolarhyde's eyes.

"You told me," growled the Tooth Fairy, "That there was _no one_ watching today."

Dr. Chilton hardly regarded Mr. Dolarhyde's words, offering only a shoulder shrug as he shut the folder and crossed his arms. When he faced the other man, he was absolutely indifferent to Dolarhyde's hostility.

"Oh, well," he told him. "I lied."

Four words. Four words and civility was dead.

In an instant, Francis Dolarhyde became unhinged. He rose and grabbed Dr. Chilton by his jacket, and with a snarl, he yanked Chilton across the table with white knuckles and with his neck as red as scarlet. Chilton thrashed inches from Dolarhyde's mouth as the man's teeth flashed in the light. I remembered immediately reading how Dolarhyde earned his nickname. I remembered immediately how Chilton lost his lips. The buzzer rang and two more guards rushed in to help the ones already trying to get a hold of the stronger man. Twice Dolarhyde snapped his teeth near Chilton's face. So close. Barely out of range. All Chilton could do was lean away with widened eyes as the hospital staff pulled and tugged at Dolarhyde's muscled arms. In the end, it took five minutes, five orderlies, and a mild sedative for the room to settle down.

The interviewing room was filled with the huffing gasps of men. Dr. Chilton stared at Dolarhyde who was bent over the table, wrists cuffed behind his back, and with the hands of three orderlies pinning him down.

"I believe we're done for today, Francis," said Chilton as he adjusted his tie. His hands were shaking. "It was nice to finally see you again. I'm looking forward to our time together."

So much hate burned in the eyes of Francis Dolarhyde. I could feel the hate from where I sat in the next room. With hellfire, he glowered at Dr. Chilton, and despite the haughty smirk he got in return, Mr. Dolarhyde managed to have the final say. Just as the staff pulled his body off of the table, Mr. Dolarhyde curled back his lips and spat in Dr. Chilton's face. He was sneering when the orderlies finally dragged him out of the room.

My sister was up before me. The door opened into the hallway and as I stood, she was already addressing Dr. Chilton.

"What was that?" demanded my sister, the cordiality completely removed from her voice.

Dr. Chilton stood in the hall, a smug expression touching every feature of his face as he wiped it down with a silk pocket square.

"Just a simple stress assessment," he said plainly. "As we agreed. Nothing more."

"Do you realize what damage you might've caused that man? Irreparable damage?"

"How so?"

" _Months_ of therapy, countless sessions from multiple professionals, all possibly reversed and down the drain because of your "simple stress assessment." Accusing him of being a misogynist. Bringing up McClane. I'm sorry, but are you shitting me right now?"

The man's invisible brow raised at my sister's anger, and to my own personal disdain he allowed a crooked smile to tug at his mouth.

"Francis Dolarhyde is a smart man, Dr. Ashe. He proved to be rather cunning during the FBI's manhunt, and though I do believe he did suffer from a rare strand of Dissociative Identity Disorder and has been successful in most of his treatment, part of me couldn't help but make sure we were past the dramatics-"

"You said that you would "ease him in" with non-specifics!"

"And you really believe that he wouldn't see past that? I'm sorry, but if you think Mr. Dolarhyde is as fragile as you think, then he already has you pegged for a fool."

"I understand that he possesses a high intelligence," declared my sister. "This doesn't mean, however, that he is immune to _all_ of the stressors that provoked his episodes when he first started."

"Ah, but provoking that man was exactly what we agreed upon over the phone, Dr. Ashe. And in provoking him, we learned what we needed to. We learned that Francis Dolarhyde is still just as unstable as he was on Day One."

"I don't agree with how you went about it!" said my sister. "It was underhanded and reckless. Fragile or not, sociopath or not, that man is still under my care-"

"For now," sniped Chilton, his smile dimming. "I may be the bully, but men like Dolarhyde need to be reminded who holds the keys to their freedom, Dr. Ashe. How did he react when you mentioned me last week?"

"Barely interested," said Dom dryly. "It was hard to see if he recognized your name at all, and based on his initial response to you when he entered the room, I'd say the depth of his dissociative memory still needs examination."

Dr. Chilton grimaced at my sister's answer, but recovered his condescension quickly.

"Or," he started, "He could be more distracted by other people he has come into contact with recently."

Peculiarly, both doctors looked my way. While Dr. Chilton appeared humored, Dom wasn't so light hearted. She looked pissed.

"Did you notice how he stared at you, Miss Emme?" said Chilton. "Disarming, isn't he?"

"I didn't look at Mr. Dolarhyde," I replied.

"Why is that?"

"Given the emotional state of, of the room, direct eye contact didn't seem like a good idea. I didn't want to upset him."

"You were afraid."

"Yes," I replied with a touch of hesitation. "Yes I was."

Satisfied, the psychiatrist lifted his wrist to check the time.

"Dr. Ashe," he then began tiredly, "I don't mind continuing with Francis Dolarhyde. He's atrocious, but makes for a good book study. However, from here on out his "fragility" is going to be a continued headache for you if you were uncomfortable with today's session. Now, I have an interview to tend to, so I'll be leaving. Give my offer some thought, won't you?"

I was told to return to her office while my sister walked Dr. Chilton to the door. As I started gathering supplies by her desk, I couldn't erase how defeated my sister seemed.

The last time that I saw my sister so mutedly angered by another person was when we were teenagers. Our father had banished her then-boyfriend from our house after he returned Dom home past curfew. Dom didn't scream or yell or cry. Not openly anyway, but she did remain silent around our father for an entire month. Stiff-lipped and with venom in her eyes, she would only talk to me and our mom. To our father, the only communication he received was that via nods and shakes of the head.

The memory alit within the walls of my mind while watching Dom toil at her desk. She hadn't said a word since escorting Dr. Chilton from the hospital, and seeing her so quietly upset made me uncomfortable again.

After gathering some courage, I opened my mouth to speak.

"Dom?" I said.

"Yes?"

"You okay?"

"No, not really."

"Okay. Can I ask you something else?"

"Sure."

"What's the offer that Dr. Chilton made you? He mentioned it right before he left."

The ballpoint pen in her hand stilled.

"Dr. Chilton thinks that he knows how to get Francis to open up," she told me. "And at this point, I'm so desperate that I think I have to take him up on it."

"What is it?"

I watched as her fingers laced and how she hesitated in her thoughts before answering me. The pause watered my anxiety into a new level of nervousness.

"I saw you," she said quietly. "I saw you the night that you went down to his cell and he spoke to you. There's cameras, Al. Did you honestly think we didn't have cameras down there?"

I exhaled slowly. I didn't know exactly how she felt, but hearing that Dom knew that I snuck to the wing where Francis Dolarhyde dwelled relieved a great burden of worry deep inside me. Even as she watched me process her discovery, I couldn't help but feel slightly elated.

"I'm sorry," I said. "It was stupid. I don't know what I was thinking."

"What did you give him?" she asked.

"String. He was playing with it under the table and it fell when the guards took him away."

"What were you planning to accomplish by giving it to Francis?"

"I don't know," I said plainly. "Just seemed like the right thing to do. I felt bad for him."

" _Why_?"

The way in which Dom asked was probably the most expressive she had been with me all day. Her brow was knit together in confusion, and her self-control failed to conceal the shock in her voice.

"I can tell that he's bothered by something," I said.

"Well, yeah. Incarceration is bothersome."

"I think it's more than that. Something less heavy, but more important somehow."

Her brows raised. My confidence faltered.

"And you got all of that during my interview with him?" Dom said doubtfully. "Really?"

"Not just from you. Today with Chilton showed it, too. Something offensive. I don't know. I'm probably wrong."

A silence followed my weak explanation. Dom sat behind her desk surrounded by her paperwork, a contemplative expression on her face and her eyes glancing off to the side. That engine of a mind was hard at work, thinking of either my demise or some other thought that I was not privy to. I prayed it was the latter. My sister then pulled out her cell phone and clicked at the screen, typing a text message in rapid fire. She waited. We waited. A minute or so later, her phone lit up with a response. She read it for about one second, a spark of satisfaction glinting in her eyes. At last, she rose from her chair and walked towards the door of her office.

"Come with me," she said bluntly and kept on walking out the door.

In the end, I didn't bother asking. I had no earthly idea what mood Dom was in, her face impassive, and I had no intention of digging the hole I got myself in any deeper.

We walked through familiar halls and foyers, but then used a staircase that I never saw before. The air was chilled in the hallways from there, and the halls were bright with fluorescent light unlike the dim, cozy lighting of the regular floors of the hospital. Four times my sister had to use her security card, and we passed many guards who were on duty. The area we were in had more security in general, and many more orderlies monitoring the wing.

Eventually, after about ten minutes of walking, we came to a small security desk with two officers on duty. Again, I saw the guard whose name I had forgotten.

"Dr. Ashe," said the other guard with a nod.

"Hello, Frank," said Dom politely. "Which one?"

"The third, mam."

"Great. Thank you."

"Of course."

Her heels clacked past the desk and through a metal door that buzzed before the lock unsheathed. Though Dom proceeded confidently, I became gradually unsure the further we entered the narrow hall on the other side. On the left were several rooms with small windows in the doors. There were five doors total. Dom stopped at the third. She then placed her hand on the handle and waited. Another buzzer sounded. Dom pulled it open, holding it wider for me and with an expectant look on her face.

"After you," she said.

I frowned.

"Where are we?" I asked. "What wing is this?"

"I'll explain inside."

When I shot her a disapproving look, she smiled.

"I promise, Al. Just trust me."

I sensed the bullshit in her words. I'm no fool. Still, at the rate that I was going with my time at the hospital, I was fortunate that Dom had yet to really rip me a new one. That was the thought going through my mind as I slowly approached the door she held out for me, my eyes peeking in and seeing some of a tall glass wall and a folding chair.

Without warning, I felt something on my back push me past the threshold. I stumbled forward just as I heard the door slam shut behind me.

"Dom!" I shouted. "What the hell?"

My hand went to the handle, but the locking mechanism was already in place.

"Hey, I know you're mad at me, but come on!" I said into the metal door. "You're just going to lock me in a cell? Seriously? Dom!"

No answer.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I yelled. "Dom!"

Again, nothing.

I groaned loudly and tried seeing through the small window, my eyes searching angrily for my older sibling. She wasn't in view, which only frustrated me further.

"Whatever," I mumbled under my breath. My hand banged on the door as a last attempt at freedom. Nothing came of the action, and I sighed again.

Turning further in to the room, I saw the glass wall and the metal folding chair. The glass wall reached from the floor almost to the top of the ceiling, a few inches of space between them. I couldn't see the whole room from where I stood by the door, and as I walked around the small corner by the room's entrance, I short gasp sounded from my lips.

A body. On the floor on the other side of the room and behind the glass was a body. It was curled in the corner, knees brought to chest and forearms resting on knees. Between the fingers was a red string, and in his fierce eyes I saw raw confusion, a look that I had seen before.

Francis Dolarhyde. Again it was Francis Dolarhyde with me in an enclosed space, unashamedly scrutinizing, and silently asking questions.

"Hi," I found myself saying softly.

I was conflicted in my emotion. While my embarrassment for having had a near meltdown in front of a stranger existed in a pale shade, it was made paler still by the climbing fear that burned in chest. An instinctual fear that no physical barricade could ease.

I was in a room with Francis Dolarhyde. He ripped people open with his teeth.

My greeting stirred him into action. With a cautious slowness, the man rose from his position on the floor to stand fully before me, his body taking careful steps closer to the glass. I felt as if I was at the zoo, like when an animal comes close to where you are, curious and mildly frightening despite the fact that you are safely out of harm's reach. His steps ceased. He stood a few feet away, but near enough to the glass to make it fog.

His scarred throat flexed. He swallowed before parting that scarred mouth of his.

"Hi."

* * *

 **THE FINALE, THOUGH. It was lovely, and I especially enjoyed how Fuller showed Dolarhyde's military experience in the episode.** **I had this chapter drafted and almost completed nearly a week ago, but chose to hold off until the _Hannibal_ finale aired last weekend. I'm glad I waited. Most of what I wrote had to be scrapped to align better with what occurred on the show. Thank you for the patience, and I'm even happier now that I started this work. Dolarhyde has certainly grown into another villain that I enjoy. -TCR**


	3. Chapter 3

Speaking with the man with the dragon tattoo on his back, such times will continue to be pivotal moments in my life. Though I wish I could brag about the constancy of higher-thinking conversations, the truth of the matter would be that what we discuss isn't anything super mind-blowing. The news. The weather, it always starts with the weather because hey, it's an easy out. Cooking on occasion, but I can't cook to save my life. Music often. Books often, but most of what we say and ask is about each other. Just who we are. Bits and pieces of the self dealt out like bread for birds. A rare smile on the tail end of a coy remark. He laughs, but it's a shy sound. Very shy.

In the beginning it required a steady balance and a sensitivity that I'm thankful I was able to keep in check. But, in a way it also required nothing. I was stripped of my ability to leave that cell and had nothing but myself to present. No promises. No means of escape. No leverage, and I quickly learned no room for bullshit either. So, with nothing but myself, I sought out to form sounds which formed words which formed sentences, which touched a life, and as conversation is give and take, my life was also touched that day.

"What are you doing here?"

His voice was gruff. Masculine. Rough from lack of use. In it I heard callousness, a certain texture of inconvenience and petulance in the low rumble that was the voice of Francis Dolarhyde.

"I'm-" I started, but was quickly unable to finish. My mouth had dried up.

How small I sounded in comparison, how feeble. I had to swallow and blink a few times before trying again.

"I'm not really sure," I settled. "I'm, I'm not."

"Did Dr. Chilton s-…"

His hand immediately went to cover the lower portion of his face, hiding it from view. It was the same gesture from when I returned his string, the same odd motion of the hand that made it even harder for me to understand him. I noticed, too, the flesh under his left eye. It was puffy and purpling into a ripe shade of violet. A recent bruise. One perhaps earned on the way down to his new cell.

"Did Dr. Chilton make you come here?" he said lowly, stealing my attention from his injury.

"No," I said. "I mean, um, as far as I know, I'm not. I'm not, not really sure to be honest."

Stammering. I didn't like that I was stammering. No one ever likes feeling afraid, much less showing it.

"My sister tricked me," I added. "I think she locked me inside on purpose."

That heavy glare left my face to stare at the door before returning to me with less intensity.

"Hm," he grunted.

Somehow my explanation seemed to cool the heat in his eyes. He said nothing. The man returned to his spot in his cell, and the only sound that could be heard was Mr. Dolarhyde's jumpsuit as it slid down against the cement behind him. His long legs pulled up to his body again, and his forearms rested on his knees like before.

Seconds ticked by. Even in a situation as bizarre as the one I found myself in, I felt the itch that one feels when she is bothered by gaps of silence. That social sore.

"Um, I think I know why I'm here," I offered. "Why I'm in this room, interrupting your day like this."

Though he said nothing, I went on.

"I think it's sort of obvious. You did talk to me when you haven't spoken to anyone else here. They probably expect you to say more to me or at least hope that you will. I think."

Again, silence.

I flexed my toes and played with the sleeve of my blouse. I tried my best not to return the eye contact that he was generously offering to me.

"Am I bothering you, Mr. Dolarhyde?" I said. "Because if I am, I'd like to know what I'm doing wrong. Or, how you think I can leave-"

"No."

I dared to look. I dared to see him. The space between his eyes was still knit together, but overall the man seemed less agitated. Something of curiosity replaced his hostile demeanor.

"No?" I echoed.

"Mhm."

"Just "no?"

Francis Dolarhyde looked down at his tennis shoes, the white shoes that all patients were given to wear by the hospital. His were still pristine, I noticed, unscuffed and with laces neatly knotted. He cleared his throat.

"No," he stated. "You aren't bothering me."

"Oh."

To my further surprise, Mr. Dolarhyde spoke again.

"Thank you for your cons-…for thinking of my time."

My head nodded at the polite gratitude. How weird could this day continue to turn out?

"Like I've said already," I began carefully. "I'm assuming that the reason I'm here is because you've actually spoken to me, Mr. Dolarhyde. That's the only reason I can think of-"

"That is exactly why you're here."

I could feel my face twisting into confusion, my lips pulling like my sister's do.

"Were you expecting me?" I asked.

"I expected that something like this would happen," he answered softly. "S-Something unorthodox. Dr. Ash-…The woman in charge of my care wants me to talk to her, but I don't want to."

"Why not?"

He blinked at my heightened voice, at the sudden life it took on, as did I.

"Sorry," I murmured. "This is all pretty exciting for me."

His eyes were a grayish blue and seemed lighter in color underneath the white lights of his cell. Mysterious eyes, eyes like some cold ocean. Under the lights, they practically glowed at my answer.

"You're related to the counselor," said Mr. Dolarhyde. "You're her sis-, sis-…"

Shut eyes. A tight jaw.

I saw him struggling, heard him struggling with his 's' sounds. It was something that I had read in Dom's notes and in other works dedicated to understanding the Tooth Fairy. No doubt it had something to do with his birth defect, but as others before me pointed out, the issue could be stemmed nearer to the psychological. So as not to make him more embarrassed, I helped.

"Her sister?" I suggested. "Yes, I am."

"And she locked you in here? With me?"

"That she did."

"How kind."

My head gave a curt nod.

"Yep. What a doll."

With less sting, I said to him, "She's not that bad though. We've always been close, Dom and me. I just think she's been stressed out a lot lately. That's all."

It was subtle. His upper lip pulled upward, a sneer flashing before he returned to his uninterested façade. The face he made was a quick one, and I say façade because the man _was_ responding to me. He didn't have to, but he did answer some of my questions, even going as far to ask some of his own.

"Why don't you like my sister?" I asked. "Did she do something wrong?"

Francis Dolarhyde looked away from me and pulled his knees closer to himself. His fingers still played with the string, the reddened yarn that was fraying the more and more he twirled it.

"Has my sister offended you in some way, Mr. Dolarhyde?"

His eyes flit back to mine. Fingers stilled.

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't know. You look upset when you're with her. Dr. Chilton, too-"

"Dr. Chilton disgusts me."

Oh.

I almost flinched at that, at the sharpness. There was definitely resentment there. He didn't even hesitate with that God awful 's'.

"I can see why-"

"He made me look like an animal," Mr. Dolarhyde added fiercely. "A savage. Like some beast."

To some degree, I empathized. Chilton wasn't the sunniest men, and Mr. Dolarhyde was antagonized. However, who could avoid the obvious evidence? In different shades of wavy flesh, Dr. Chilton wore the evidence of a Dolarhyde's madness and could not hide it. Who wouldn't hate Francis Dolarhyde for what he did? The scars. The pain. As I absorbed his words a frown formed on my lips again at his last statement. It was a risk, but I decided to say what I wanted to anyway.

"I disagree."

Immediately, a spark of anger ignited in those Atlantic eyes and back was the ferocious fire. Seeing him change so quickly like that was unsettling, but then I remembered the glass and felt less afraid to continue with my explanation.

" _You_ did," I told the man. " _You_ allowed yourself to be portrayed that way. I agree that he can be disagreeable, but you must've known that he was egging you on."

Without turning away from the angry man on the floor, I quietly seated myself on the cold metal folding chair. It creaked and created goosebumps on my thighs. Its placement also made my mind wander.

Was there always a chair here?

How long had Dom planned to send me to his cell?

"Saying that you hate women-"

"I don't!"

"…was one way to get a reaction out of you. And obviously, it worked. He was successful."

Following my short summary was silence, yet this time it didn't make me feel as awkward. I patiently waited for him to speak again. That is, if he wanted to.

"He was testing me," Mr. Dolarhyde said under his breath. "Testing my self-control."

"Yes."

"Hm."

"For the same reason as to why I'm sitting here, I suspect. Can I ask you something?"

I watched as his face eased out of anger and to an expression of mild concern. In hindsight, it was funny to see how perplexed my question seemed to sound to him, like I had asked for him to take off his clothes.

With a nod of the head, he gave a quiet, "Uh-huh."

"You don't have to answer me, but I gotta know why in the world you're talking to me right now. You have no reason to, other than you're desperate for company. Which is fine, but I feel like the answer is more complicated than that."

The man didn't immediately say anything. I was growing used to the wait, to his quiet. Contemplation rested heavily on his mouth, the corners of it pulling into a shallow frown. I wondered if the lines on his forehead were from how tight he furrowed his brow all the time.

At last, his lips parted.

"Can I ask something first?"

"Only if you promise to answer mine afterwards," I said.

"Uh-huh."

My eyes narrowed.

"Fine," I said. "What is it?"

"What do you hope to gain in conversation with me?"

"Nothing."

"Not a source for research? An article?"

"I'm not interested. Nor am I really qualified to lend a hand at any sort of research. I only have my bachelors right now. Currently on my masters."

Seeing as how my answer made him hesitate, I continued.

"I mean, I could," I said. "I could be talking to you for a study, but I wouldn't need an internship for that."

"Then why are you here?" he said.

"I'm an intern?"

"But why?"

The question was, just like really any moment I've had so far with Francis Dolarhyde, unexpected. Usually the knowledge of my internship was met with "Why there?" or "How long?" but never the simple "Why?" It irked me, but I quickly countered.

"Why not?" I said. "An internship is helpful in this sort of field."

"For a college student."

"And your point?"

"Hm."

My lips pursed.

"What are you getting at?" I said to Mr. Dolarhyde.

"You told me that you graduated already from college."

"So?"

"Most do internsh-ships during undergrad education. Not in graduate school. They do clinical work. Why would you be in an internship program if you didn't need the hours and if you weren't conducting research for a study?"

So pointed. So direct in his questioning. An uneasy feeling settled in my stomach and numbed my tongue. Was he really so perceptive? Dr. Chilton's words echoed to the forefront of my mind. Francis Dolarhyde is a smart man, he had said. Mr. Dolarhyde is cunning.

I needed to take the attention off of me. I didn't like that he had listened so well, that he was picking at scabs.

"Internships can be held any time during one's pursuit of higher education," I quipped. "I figured that some extra opportunity wouldn't hurt, and for the record, I'm not going to use this conversation for any other means except for the fact that I'm stuck here and have no real choice."

"I'm not interested in that," he murmured. I watched as the hand around his jaw had relaxed. He lowered it until I saw his face, his scarred lip. "Not anymore."

"Then what are you so interested in?"

From where I was perched, I could tell that he had picked up on my defensive tone. And I didn't even care. The fears I had in the beginning had melted away the longer we talked, and the bottom line was that he couldn't harm me even if he wanted to. Maybe it's the naivety in me, but I don't think Francis Dolarhyde found me punishable anyway. Even after being prickly, no sneer or glowering eyes were pointed in my direction. If anything, he seemed taken back in concern rather than in offense.

Thankfully, he downcast his eyes and changed the subject. I didn't realize that I was holding my breath until he spoke again.

"The answer isn't a complicated one, Miss Emme."

His attention focused on his fingers, that reddened yarn twined in between them.

"Okay."

"I talk to you because you call me Mr. Dolarhyde. Not Francis."

"Why does that matter?"

"Because," he said, looking up. "We're not on a first name basis. It would be rude to assume."

It took a moment, but then, ah, I saw it then. And he was right. The answer was simple.

"You want us to earn the privilege of calling you by your first name," I stated with a slight smile. "Not to assume friendship."

"Mhm."

"Huh."

"Is that so st-str-"

Frustrated with himself, Mr. Dolarhyde took his head in his hands and roughly ran his fingers across his scalp.

"Is. It. Odd?" he enunciated stiffly.

"No. I understand why you'd want that. I could read about you all day in journals and newspapers, about what you've done, about where you came from, but that doesn't mean I _know_ you at all. The same goes for me, too, though. Just because I'm an intern, doesn't mean that I'm desperate to further my resumé or that I have some other hidden agenda. I probably could, but that's not what I'm after."

Just as he was about to say something, a heavy clank echoed from behind me. A slice of light cut through the dimness of the room, and from it emerged a new figure. Clad in uniform stood the same guard that rode in the elevator with my sister, Dr. Chilton, and I. That willowy blond man with oily hair. A crooked smile touched his face.

"Ready, Miss Emme?" he asked.

Relieved, I rose from my chair.

"Mr. Dolarhyde," I said, addressing the being behind the glass. Though his mood seemed to darken at the presence of the other man, Francis Dolarhyde still regarded me with some interest. "For what it's worth, thanks for keeping me company. And, I hope that you'll talk to my sister sometime soon. She's not so bad."

I smiled before turning on my heels and walking towards the door.

"Don't bother with 'im," stated the guard sourly, turning his nose up. "The perv's not worth the oxygen."

Taken aback, my smile instantly vanished.

"What's your name?" I asked. "I think we've met before, but my memory isn't that great."

"Dillon."

"Dillon, that was very rude of you to say of Mr. Dolarhyde," I told him. "I bet he wouldn't spare the oxygen on you either, and where did he get that bruise on his face? The one below his eye there?"

The guard clearly wasn't expecting my response, and with slit eyes he answered, "Dunno. Probably got what he deserved though."

Ignoring how the guard almost praised himself, I turned to face the cell.

"Mr. Dolarhyde?" I called. "How did you get that bruise?"

"He doesn't talk much," interjected the guard. "He's a freak that way."

We were lingering in the metal doorway with the guard's palm on the door. My own eyes narrowed at how he spoke loud enough for Francis Dolarhyde to hear, as did Dolarhyde's.

"What a shame," I said with a touch of disdain. "Abusing a patient with a mental illness would be a _very_ punishable offense, and I can imagine that the one harming Mr. Dolarhyde would receive pain from both sides of the glass."

"Pft, I doubt Dr. Ashe or anyone at this hospital would give a damn about that man, sweetheart. If anything, he'd probably get a promotion."

"Really? Well then, let's go ask."

Giving one last smile into the room, I said a final, "Have a good day, Mr. Dolarhyde."

And with that, I exited the room and headed towards the stairwell. The guard followed behind with a stern expression, I suspect in an attempt to hide his anxiety. I gave him no mind as I made my way back to Dom's office. All of my attention had to go towards stifling the boiling rage that was growing in my heart.

Without knocking, I opened the door to Dom's office.

"Hey-" I started, but quickly halted upon seeing Dr. Chilton idly lounging in one of the chairs across from Dom's desk. My sister stood on the other side of the desk, her eyes wide with surprise.

"That will be all, Mr. Colt," she announced briskly to the guard behind me. "Thank you."

Dillon awkwardly lingered before nodding and heading back down the hallway. I caught him sending me a cautious glance over the shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

"Alexandra, come sit-"

"How _could_ you?" I burst. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Alexandra, I-"

"Was this some twisted scheme that you two concocted? Just lock me down there with him! Huh?" With a pointed finger, I asked, "And what's he still doing here?"

"Hey," soothed Dom as she slowly walked around her desk. "It's okay. You never were in any real danger. We just needed to see if he would talk to you is all-"

"So you just _shove_ me in there? Just push me through? You couldn't ask?"

"There was no risk with you being in that room with Francis Dolarhyde," entered Dr. Chilton breezily. "As you tend to forget, there's a camera in every cell. We could see and hear everything. There also was a guard ready on both sides of the cell barricade ready to assist if necessary."

"Besides," he continued. "We had to make it appear as unplanned as possible. If you entered calmly, Francis might suspect something underhanded."

"But _of_ _course_ there were precautions set in place," I said to the psychiatrist. "Jesus, no wonder he's so hostile around you two! Who wouldn't be? And he _did_ know that you sent me. Called it the first minute I was there."

"For the record, Francis Dolarhyde would be hostile around anyone who is qualified enough to dissect that disturbed mind of his," sniped Chilton. "You can feign disgust all you want, Miss Emme, but even you and your sense of injustice can't deny the progress you made in the last thirty minutes."

My mouth opened to deliver some very choice words to Dr. Chilton, but before I could Dom stepped in.

"Dr. Chilton," she breathed. "I think that I can explain the rest to my sister without your help. Thank you for coming by today. I'll see you tomorrow morning after my session with Mr. Dolarhyde."

A small chuckle left his mouth as Dr. Chilton rose from his chair.

"Yes, I'm very interested to know what _Mr. Dolarhyde_ is going to say," he chided as he walked out the door. Dom shut it behind him, but I refused to weaken under the gaze of her pleading eyes.

"I'm sorry I tricked you," she said softly. "We just needed to see."

"Well, now you did. Happy?"

"Alex-"

"I don't want to talk about it. At all. You got your footage. Dolarhyde talked to me. All your wishes came true. Can I go back to filing paperwork now?"

Her lips pursed. A moment passed before they opened again, that rose mouth.

"Tomorrow," she started, "I will sit with Francis and have our weekly session. I will make no reference to you at all. But, if he mentions you and the time you spent together, then I need you to understand what this could mean."

"It means nothing."

"No, for him it might be healing-"

" _Oh_! _Fuck_ _you_ , Dom!"

"Hey!"

"Don't go guilt-tripping me!" I said through gritted teeth. "Telling me how "healing" it could be. Using his rehab as a reason that I should step in and help out like that!"

"I'm not guilt-tripping you! This really could be healthy for him."

"He's fine!" I shot back. "He doesn't need me to recover. So he has a temper. Big fucking deal."

"You know, it actually is a "big fucking deal," snapped my sister. "His next phase in treatment is to introduce him to other patients and social settings. We can't do that unless we know that he won't kill anyone at the drop of a hat."

"So, what am I? Huh? Some in between. His little taste of humanity? Bite me. And you'll never know if he won't kill anyone. I mean, what do you want me to do? Make him pinky swear it?"

"Gah! You are so selfish!"

"Yeah, okay, Dom. You're right. How selfish of me not to let you use me as your middleman for your most violent psych patient. Hell better be ready because it has another one comin' because I'm _so_ selfish!"

"You know," she exasperated. "Some people would die to be you right now. Die! Do you know how many requests I get per day from psychologists and other scholars to talk to him? Hundreds, Al! And here you are pissed off. So I tricked you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I made you talk to him, but you know, I'm really in a tight place here and it was just a theory. Just an attempt to get Dolarhyde on his feet again. Sue me!"

I ignored her teary eyed stare, opting instead to look at the brown swirls in the wood of her office door.

These last few months have been hard, for both Dom and me. During them, I never had to wonder if she had my back, if she could be there whether it be on the phone or on the next flight to Colorado. Dom was with me every step of escaping through the hardest parts, parts that I had yet to really share with anyone outside our family. Most of my friends thought I really was in St. Louis for an internship, and that my sister happened to be at the facility. A lie. Too convenient.

Did Francis Dolarhyde see through my own façade?

No. How could he? He can't see me.

"Okay," I murmured. "Okay, God, I hear you."

She sighed.

"I know that you're mad," she started. "And you have every right to be, but please believe me when I say that I would never put you in a position of real danger, Al. I wouldn't do it if I thought you could get hurt."

"I believe you."

We stood in our places in her office for another minute or two, her eyes on me, heavy like gravity, and my eyes somewhere else, gone like the moon. I refused to look at her because I knew if I did, my heart would immediately soften in her favor. Always has been like that. Since we were children climbing trees in our backyard. She wields some sort of power that melts me whenever she makes me rightly pissed at her.

"I'll make a deal with you," I mumbled, regretting the decision I made already.

"What?"

"Tomorrow, you will have your session, but you can't mention me. You can't say my name or bring up today's events at all. Not the guard. Not the yarn. Not a word that he and I exchanged or a facial expression you saw on the camera footage. Nothing. If and only if he brings it up, brings me up on his own, will I consider talking to him again. Got it? That's my offer."

A sniffle.

"Really? You'd do that?" she asked thickly.

"Sure. Wait, and it'll be done my way. Not Dr. Chilton's, all sneaky and bullshitty. No. My way."

"Um, alright. But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you change your mind?"

It was my turn to sigh, a hot breath of tired defeat.

"Because, you've been really supportive of me these last few months when I needed you. So, I'll return the favor. Just don't make it weird."

Without warning, a pair of wiry arms wrapped around my body, embracing me in a tight hug. Her floral perfume, I smelt it. Expensive. A gift from her husband.

"Thank you, Alex," she breathed in my hair. "Thank you so much."

I knew that I couldn't pull off a genuine "you're welcome" so I chose to remain silent. I lacked the energy for any more love. I was spent.

As she let me go, however, I did recall one important thing.

"I think the guards are antagonizing Mr. Dolarhyde," I said to my sister.

"Probably," she murmured. "They tend to be verbally abusive towards our criminal patients."

"I figured that, but I think they're physically abusive, too. He had a fresh bruise on his face that wasn't there during his interview with Dr. Chilton. When I asked the guard, he made a joke about it."

Dom's face soured at such news, as I expected it would, and I was glad to hear her assure me that she would investigate the matter further. I gave her the name of the guard I believed might be responsible or know who was to blame, and from there the day ended swiftly. We went home. We ate dinner with her husband. We slept.

In the beginning it required a steady balance and a sensitivity that I'm thankful I was able to keep in check. But, in a way it also required nothing. I gave up all control of the situation, banking on the hope that Mr. Dolarhyde didn't care to talk to me again.

I had nothing to do with it, really. I wanted nothing to do with him.

The very next day, I saw Mr. Dolarhyde handcuffed to the metal table of the interview room. His chains glistened in a sorry way under the single bulb that hung above his head as it casted shadows where his eyes were and darkened that line over his mouth thicker still in a menacing sneer.

But I knew he wasn't in a foul mood. His face was smooth, eyes alert. The swelling below his eye had noticeably gone down, his handsomeness intact.

When Dom entered the interview room, she was poised and clinical as ever.

"Hello, Mr. Dolarhyde," she said. "How are you today?"

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk before he thought better of it.

"Fine."

Dom's brow quirked.

"Great," she said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Mhm."

"How's your face?"

Mr. Dolarhyde winced at that, making my sister feel the need to clarify.

"Your eye doesn't look as swollen as it did last night," she added thoughtfully. "Glad the ice helped."

My frame was leaning towards the glass, not that it made a difference in how well I could hear them. I didn't realize how far I had moved until the clicking sound of my room's doorknob startled me.

"Miss Emme, I can't say I'm surprised to see you here."

His voice made my skin crawl. Smart. Too smart, almost condescending, his voice. It wasn't entirely Dr. Chilton's fault though. We can't choose our pitch.

"Hello," I replied politely. "How are you?"

"Fine, fine," said Chilton as he quietly closed the door. "Has anything of interest been exchanged?"

Returning my attention to the other room, I saw that Francis Dolarhyde wasn't looking where I expected him to. Not at my sister. Not at the table, but at the glass. His eyes landed directly on me.

"No, not really," I answered. "He's talked a little."

"Hm, of course he did. Tell me, are you still upset from yesterday?"

"No. I got over it."

"Good. Grudges aren't professional."

I could have laughed at such a statement coming from him, but I chose to model after my sister.

"Do you really think your plan will work?" I asked him. "That Francis Dolarhyde will want to continue to talk to me?"

"Do you not?"

"I don't know," I said limply with a shrug of the shoulder. "Why would he want to?"

"Why wouldn't he?"

"I've never considered myself that interesting of a person."

"They never do," he answered lightly.

A strange response, so odd that I turned my head to face him, but just as I was about to inquire as to what Dr. Chilton meant, I became distracted by what was happening in the other room.

"I'm glad that you chose to speak to me today, Mr. Dolarhyde," said Dom's calming voice. "It makes me happy, even if it is only temporary."

I nearly flinched when I saw that his eyes hadn't moved from where I was sitting. There was intent in those blue eyes of his, a determination to see past the barrier between our rooms. It felt like he did see me. Part of me wanted to ask if he could see through the glass after all.

Without looking away, Francis Dolarhyde asked, "Do you normally take major risks, Dr. Ashe?"

In response, a small frown formed on my sister's face.

"Pardon?" said Dom.

The man in the jumpsuit at last diverted his attention away from the window to hold focus on the face of my sister, who in return, stared back at him in scrutiny.

"You sent your little sister to me," he said.

"I did."

"Your _little_ _sister_ to me."

I watched as my sister's mouth opened, then shut.

"She was scared," continued Mr. Dolarhyde. "In the beginning, she was scared of me. I don't think that Miss Emme wanted to be there with me in that room, but she was respectful. Sweet. And you betrayed her."

"My sister is capable-"

"Stop talking."

The guard behind him took a step towards Dolarhyde, but with one cold look over the shoulder, Dolarhyde made the guard freeze in place.

"As I was saying," continued Dolarhyde, his gaze shifting back to Dom. "Miss Emme came to my cell terrified, polite, and unwilling. Of those three characteristics, I'd say you fit one of them right now. Are you afraid, Dr. Ashe?"

Dom blinked as if broken from a trance.

"I'm not afraid so much as curious, Mr. Dolarhyde," she answered.

"I know that you're curious."

"Really now?"

"Mhm. All psychologists are. It's their excuse for digging into the skulls of their patients with blunt tools. Professional curiosity."

"I'm not a psychologist-"

"You're right. You're worse."

Again, Dom parted her lips to say something to the man across from her, but her voice failed to make a sound. Francis Dolarhyde wasn't smiling, but there was a glint of victory in his eyes.

"Your little sister asked me why she was there, and I had no answer for her. I suppose I won't know either. Not yet."

"Are you playing a game, Mr. Dolarhyde?" Dom said, the strength in her tone new and authoritative.

Her patient noticed it as well. His head tilted slightly.

"No. Not intentionally," he answered. "But I would like to speak to Miss Emme again, if the option is available to me."

"It can be made available, but I would like to know why."

A smirk. Small and gone in a blink.

"To keep her safe?" he asked.

"To understand."

"Mm."

The man leaned closer, his eyes leaving Dom's pale face to wander towards the window. I cringed.

"The answer isn't a complicated one, Dr. Ashe."

I couldn't blink. I couldn't leave the eyes that rested on me. How strange that such a moment is still so clearly remembered by me today. Like when his fingertips touched mine the time before, when they were warm. Gently. Kindly. He didn't look kind as he gazed towards the glass, eyes like ocean waves. Deep. Mysterious. Dangerous.

I still can feel them drown me.

"She's sweet."


	4. Chapter 4

"I don't know. I mean, I like it. I do, but Colorado is better."

"Psh, duh! Of course it is! Humor me though, how exactly? Make your case."

The answer came quickly.

"Its home," I said. "What's better than home, ya' know?"

"Have you been to that arch thing?" asked my friend, her mouth pressed into the phone's receiver. "It looks kind of cool. I always see it on post cards at gas stations."

"I've been. Henry and I toured it together a few days ago. It was fun. Freakin' high, too."

I paced about my room, my feet following an invisible path in a pair of wool socks. Talking to friends from home was a nice lifeline. It centered me, reminding me that I had a place in the world outside of St. Louis. I liked hearing from my friends and their days from back home, of their jobs and boyfriends. They chattered on and on about nothing and everything.

"You sound bored," her voice chirped. "Has Dom ruined your life yet?"

"Mm, a little bit, yeah," I mused. "And it's been sort of boring, but not too bad. A lot of paperwork and stuff like that. I've been allowed to talk to some patients though."

"Anyone famous?"

I hesitated.

"I'm sorry, what?" I asked. "The phone cut out."

"Nah, never mind. You know, I don't get why you like that sort of thing. Those crazy people."

"They're not "crazy." And you know how I feel about that word."

"They're "unwell" or "sick" or whatever. Still don't get it."

"I don't get it either. I just want to help people is all, and I think some of them are misunderstood. It's not their fault the chemicals in their brain disagree with what they want in life."

"And for the ones that had bad childhoods and go on a killing spree? Huh? What about them?"

I knew whom exactly she was referring to, but chose to ignore her jab.

"Um, well, I don't know. Hard to gauge pain."

"'Cept when they murder people."

"Yeah, well, we have body counts for that."

A soft laugh blew into the phone, and I smiled widely.

"Oh, Alexandra. You honor your namesake."

"Thanks," I sighed. "I miss you guys."

"Then come home! We miss you more. Plus, we still haven't got to take you out since you and Clayton broke up."

My feet stilled. They had stopped when I was by my window, the reflection in the glass showing me my wide eyes and pouted lips.

"Yeah," I said thickly. "Um-"

"Sorry."

"No, I'm fine-"

"You're still not over him, are you?"

"I am," I said. "Really. I'm over him. I'm fine, I just try not to think about him is all."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm fine, and I'll let you know when exactly my internship's over in December. Promise. And maybe I can visit at some point in between. We'll get drunk."

"We better! I'm going to hold you to that, ya' know."

"Good. Hey, I'm going to go to bed. Got to get up early and I need the sleep."

"Are you sure? Sorry I brought him up-"

"Ha, no, you're alright. I really do have to go to sleep. You didn't say anything. I'm not upset. I'm okay."

"Promise?"

"Promise. I'm just going to sleep."

"Ditto. Talk to you later."

"Buh-bye."

Crawling under my sheets with my cell phone nestled in my hands, I actively tried not to think about the life I left. A vain attempt, really. I missed the mountains and the crisp air of Colorado. I missed my friends and my family, my apartment and my dog. I missed knowing more than two people in a city, and frankly, I didn't care to be in St. Louis anymore. Not that my experiences so far were awful, but the most recent event at the hospital cast a shadow of doubt over what I expected the next few months to be like.

Two weeks ago, Francis Dolarhyde asked if he could see me again. The Tooth Fairy, the murderer whom I witnessed try to bite off the face of Dr. Chilton, wanted to see me. To talk to _me_. The thought alone made me shiver. I imagine that everyone would shiver at such a thought, that they would be in a room to talk to the most recent terror of the Midwest.

Images of his crimes, the blood-spattered walls and the pretty faces of his victims appeared in rapid fire in my mind. They had all looked so happy. The parents, the children. God, he killed kids. He took his time and stalked their properties. Watched them. And what he did to their bodies, while living and dead. I knew what he did, I read about it. To the mothers. It was all so otherworldly, but altogether a consequential reality of one man's burning mind. It was a living hell.

And such a man as that, so violent, so disturbed, so wounded, such a wretch wanted to talk to me.

Colorado had its perks, but one flawed factor that made St. Louis a current safe haven for me. St. Louis though, had a serial killer that knew me by name.

With my phone pressed to my chest, I sobbed myself to sleep that night. I kept picturing Mrs. Leeds. Mirror shard eyes.

I didn't have much time to emotionally prepare for when I would see Mr. Dolarhyde again. Or, I guess you could argue that I did, but it's near impossible to prepare for the unknown. For two weeks, they refused to tell me when I would see the man. "Soon" they would say, just "soon." I didn't like. Drove me crazy. By day thirteen I had to threaten Dom with bowing out just so that she would get rid of the secrecy bullshit, but I wish I hadn't. Dom admitted to me that Mr. Dolarhyde didn't even know, and that her and Dr. Chilton's hope was that the uncertainty would "build suspense" for Dolarhyde, that it would raise his "excitement," like I was some kid's special day at the zoo.

I couldn't look at Dom after she told me. That evening we didn't even talk at dinner time. Poor Henry.

When they at last gave me a date and that day arrived, day sixteen, I drove to the hospital a completely different person. After considering my wardrobe back and forth, I settled on something unconventional. Gone was my silk blouse and dress pants. I opted instead for one of my dad's over-sized sweatshirts and a pair of running shorts. No make-up. I wore tennis shoes, not flats, and not one piece of jewelry adorned me. I was absolutely comfortable and had absolutely no fucks to give.

"Miss Emme," greeted Dr. Chilton, his breath soured by coffee. I think the man was raising an eyebrow at me. At least, the skin moved, hairless and tight.

"Hi. I didn't know you were still in town."

"Your sister and I are conducting a joint study on Francis Dolarhyde," he informed me. "God only know how long it'll take. Have you slept?"

I knew he didn't have to ask. My face surely showed it.

"Um, no. No, I haven't been getting much sleep lately. How are you this morning?"

"How am I, well, I'm very interested in your strategy. Trying to dampen our femininity, are we?"

I gave myself a quick one-over, but said nothing. We were standing in the foyer where I first met the man, the light from those three, tall windows blanketing us in white. I hadn't seen Dr. Chilton since I last watched Mr. Dolarhyde from the observation deck. Can't say anything changed other than the color of his tie. A light green one that day. Green like money.

He did smile at my response though. Close-lipped. Or, as close as he can muster.

"How are you really, Miss Emme?"

"I'm fine," I answered curtly. "Thank you for asking."

"Hm, if Francis Dolarhyde was right about one thing it would be about the pristine state of your manners," said Dr. Chilton with a smirk. "You're polished, but you don't have to be here. You can tell me the truth. This sort of work can be very taxing on the inexperienced."

My eyes narrowed at his prodding, at the way his eyes skirted my face for giveaways, but like I said, I had no fucks to give. In a voice that's volume matched Chilton's, I leaned in and answered him.

"I'm angry."

"At whom?"

"Myself."

His mouth parted, but immediately shut at the sound of approaching heels on tile.

"Francis finished his breakfast and is now exercising in his cell," Dom announced. "Now would be a great time to show up."

"Why now?" I asked.

"For a man who is so concerned about his appearance like Francis Dolarhyde is," said Chilton. "Having a beautiful woman walk in on him during a private moment of self-improvement would be disarming, don't you think?"

"Oh, yes," I quipped with an empty laugh. "Startling him sounds great. Just what I want to do at the beginning of our time together."

"Alex-"

"Thought you wanted us to be friends," I said to my sister. "I didn't know we were still trying to irritate him."

"We aren't," eased Dom. "Francis just needs to be as unprepared for you as possible. That's all."

"Catching Francis off guard will help us identify any remaining flaws in his personality," added the other doctor.

Looking between them, I could sense that I wasn't getting the whole picture. Unblinking eyes that stuck to me like cancer, observing, calculating orbs. The more they answered, the more questions rose in my throat and threatened to spill out.

"Why are you still interested in his personality?" I asked.

"Miss Emme, the man was diagnosed with DID," said Dr. Chilton lazily. "I think our continued interest in Dolarhyde's personality goes without saying."

"I understand that," I sniped. "You two have the plan, not me. I just want to make sure that there isn't anything I'm missing out on here."

Shooting a glare at Dom, I added, "Don't want to be pushed through any more metal doors without knowing what's on the other side."

My older sister returned my cold stare with a vacant gaze of apathy. It was our teenage years all over again. Snobbish. Competitive.

With a wave of the hand and her feet already carrying her away from me, Dom declared, "We need to get to him now or we'll miss our chance."

I was so mad. I was so furious, so livid, that I could feel the emotion heating my skin and creeping up my neck. Without holding back, I took advantage. The pair had already reached the other side of the foyer when I decided to speak up.

"Actually," I called. "I'd rather go by myself."

Both doctors turned and raised their brows at my request, but neither of them said a word.

"I know the way," I continued. "And I don't want him to have a clue that you two are around."

"Chances are he won't see us," objected Dom. "We don't plan on showing ourselves-"

"Dom," I said.

At hearing her name, my sister straightened. Clinical. Poised.

"My rules, remember?" I prompted. "My rules or I'm out. You two stay up here. I'll go alone."

My sister's chin leveled at my boldness, her hazel eyes studying every part of me with razor-like precision. I didn't falter though. I couldn't let her win that round.

"Fine," she stated. "Your rules, but hospital policy won't allow you to go completely alone. Mr. Colt will escort you."

I nodded and began crossing the foyer. I passed her and Dr. Chilton without averting my eyes from the exit.

Dillon, or Mr. Colt as Dom prefers, kept his eyes ahead of him the whole walk down to patient holding. Since reprimanding him some time ago, I wasn't at all surprised that he treated me like we never met before. He didn't say anything. His pace was quick, too. I couldn't blame the man. I wouldn't talk to me either.

At last after traversing most of the building, I made it to the long hallway of Patient Holding I-V, where I assumed, the Tooth Fairy resided. The guard gestured towards the end of the hall and promptly left me alone without explanation. I frowned after Dillon's lackluster politeness, but quickly shrugged off any ill feelings. I had much more important matters to focus on.

Slow breaths, a beating heart, and a shaking hand. A sudden itch on my right thigh. Tightly shut eyes. I bit my lip. Antsy, antsy, I was nervous. Stupid nervous.

Come on, I thought. It'll be over before you realize it. Maybe he doesn't really want to talk. Maybe he just wanted to piss off your sister, I hoped.

I closed my eyes. Swallowed. My fingers curled around the door handle to his cell. I pulled.

Stepping into the dim room, the first thing that caught my attention was the air. It was warmer than that of the hall, a certain humidity filling the space and spreading all around me. And the smell. I can't quite describe it, except that it was very natural, very human. It had heat. My eyes quickly adjusted to the light, and just before I shut the door behind me, I paused my hand.

He didn't hear me. He didn't notice me at all. The man was too focused, too far gone into his own mind. I thought to say his name, but didn't. I couldn't. I had to watch first.

Mr. Dolarhyde stood tall with his back to me, his hands flexing open and closed, open and closed at his sides. His shoulders slowly rolled forward twice, his joints popping. No matter how many times that I've seen the man thus far, his height and broad shoulders will always impress me. It was no real mystery as to how so many men managed to die at his hand. One just needed to look at Francis Dolarhyde. The man was strong. The man was intimidating.

Without warning, he turned and bent at the waist. The man proceeded to carefully lift his whole body with his arms alone, holding himself and straightening the length of him upright into the air. The muscles of his arms curved through the sleeves of his jumpsuit, outlined and cut. My eyes bulged at such a sight, at such a display of pure strength that I did not expect to see. He let out a few breaths, steady and deep as he held the position, his arms barely trembling under his weight. I was so lost in the moment, so mesmerized that I didn't realize that I had stepped further into the room to get a better look. The door slammed shut.

Startled, Francis Dolarhyde toppled down to the cement floor. He had tried to turn, tried to crane his neck, but evidently lost his balance. The fall looked painful, and I winced at how hard he landed on his side. Vivid, angry eyes quickly rose to meet mine, but just as quickly as it all happened, the rage in his eyes softened into that of incredulity.

"Sorry!" I cried. "I didn't, didn't mean to scare you like that. Are you okay?"

A pause, a painfully obvious one, and then Mr. Dolarhyde seemed to remember himself.

"S'fine," he mumbled, and that was all.

In any other time, the moment could be called funny. There he was, a man as threatening as the Tooth Fairy killer, sprawled out on the floor in between a bare, stained mattress and a metal toilet. One of his hands, the left, rose to shield his mouth from me, but I think he sensed the pointlessness in the gesture. I've seen him plenty of times by then. There was no hiding now. The hand lowered back to his side. His forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat, and his eyes were as wide as the moon and cheeks stained pink. I almost smiled down at him, he looked so vulnerable. I didn't even realize how bad I was blatantly gawking at the man until he swallowed and looked away from me, his cheeks becoming redder.

My weight shifted between my feet. He didn't say anything more, and remembering what I originally planned to do, I put on a mask of neutrality just like Dom wears during her sessions. Walking further into the room, I noticed another metal chair like last time, but chose to ignore it. I opted for the wall across from the bars instead, the cool brick feeling good on my back as I sat down on the floor across from Mr. Dolarhyde.

Next, I reached into the big pocket of my sweatshirt. From it I dug out my iPod and a pair of old headphones that were wrapped loosely around them. It wasn't until I started to unwind my headphones did I hear Mr. Dolarhyde clear his throat.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Deep and rough like the last time we spoke. Gravelly, almost. I knew why, too, why his voice was so coarse. Mr. Dolarhyde hadn't said a word to Dom since their last session. Two whole weeks. They had met twice for their weekly sessions, and on tape he didn't appear as hostile like he usually was. If anything, the man came off as bored. Picked at his nails, sighed, and when his attention drifted to the glass, Dom quickly informed him that I wasn't observing that day. The man never looked again. Chilton even took a crack at him for a surprise third session after Dom's bore no fruit. The psychiatrist did the same thing as before, mentioned Reba McClane, antagonized the man, but the most he got out of Dolarhyde was a deep, wide-mouthed yawn. All in all, nothing. Not a sound in two whole weeks.

Solid question, I wanted to say aloud. What I was doing, I had no clue. Not really. I kind of planned, but how it all went boiled down to Dolarhyde. He's the wind in my sails. I merely had the sheets.

Of course, I didn't tell him these things. I had a different answer.

"Don't mind me," I said to Dolarhyde's question. "Just about to listen to some music."

Chancing a glance, I saw what I expected. That brow of his was tightly knit together, a firm line between the eyes. Either confused or offended, I couldn't nail down exactly what emotion he might've been feeling.

"I can see that," Mr. Dolarhyde murmured. "I can tell what you're about to do, but why are you here-"

"Didn't you ask for me?" I said in a higher voice. The man frowned. "I thought you wanted me here," I stated innocently.

"I do," he said with a degree of carefulness, a lingering hesitancy coating his tone.

"So, here I am. Per request. That, of course, doesn't mean that I have to speak to you."

As I put one earbud in, I raised my eyes to fully see him. Sitting on the floor a few feet away sat Francis Dolarhyde, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. He was no longer blushing. The sweat was still drying on his skin. The man looked absolutely lost for words, and when I put in my other earbud, his eyes seemed to darken.

"But like I said, don't mind me," I continued flippantly. "Keep doing whatever it was you were doing because I honestly don't care what you do in here. Pretend that you're alone. You might as well be."

I pressed play. The music kicked in and the words sang out in a charming melody. Though my eyes were trained on my shoes, Mr. Dolarhyde was still in sight. It took all the power in my being not to smile at his obvious annoyance.

He took in a breath. His lips moved.

"I can't hear you," I stated.

A wince. He tried again with greater effort.

"Still can't hear you."

The muscles in his jaw flexed. I paused my song.

"What?" I then asked. "I thought you were working out."

"What are you doing here if not to talk to me?" he asked stiffly.

"Only fulfilling my sister's wishes and humoring her and Dr. Chilton's efforts in discovering more about the complex world of human behavior. Nothing more."

I hit play again.

Minutes ticked by until my song ended and began repeating itself. Mr. Dolarhyde didn't move from his place, but I could tell that his mind was racing. Those eyes of his, those powerful things kept studying me over and over again. Twice his mouth moved to say something to me. Twice he decided against it. He fidgeted. I saw no red string in his fingers, but he picked at his fingernails. The corner of his mouth twitched. When my song was about to start over for a third time, I decided to speak.

"Do you really want to know why I'm here?" I asked.

A new brightness sparked in him. His shoulders eased up.

Hope?

"Uh-huh."

"First thing's first," I said. "Tell me where the cameras are."

Mr. Dolarhyde frowned at my inquiry, but with a raised finger he pointed to the far corner of the room.

"Just one," he said.

My eyes peered into the darkness. I saw it. The little red light. A beacon.

"Awesome. One sec."

Rising from the floor, I approached the metal chair. I then picked it up with both hands and took it to where the camera was in the room, placing the chair right below where it was on the ceiling. One foot stepped up onto the chair, the other following, and while standing on top of it I wondered briefly how Mr. Dolarhyde felt about being watched. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for the rest of his life. Watched. Studied. Observed. What a way to grow old, right? Pushing the thoughts out of my mind, I focused on using my fingers to feel behind the camera. Two wires were attached to the back, small and short surrounded by rubber tubing just as they were described to me. Without wasting another second, I gently yanked them out from their sockets.

"There," I said to myself, a wave of satisfaction washing over my nerves.

When I looked back at Mr. Dolarhyde, I couldn't help but finally smile down at him. His anticipation was nearly palpable.

"I made a deal with my sister," I told him while hopping down from the chair. "It's a pretty special one, one that they wouldn't give most people, but, well, here we are."

I was about to retake my spot along the wall, but thought better of it. I paused, looked at Mr. Dolarhyde, and then back at the chair. Then with one hand on the chair's back, I dragged it towards the metal bars of the cell, its legs creating an unpleasant scraping sound along the concrete floor. Out of arm's reach, or what I judged to be out of his arm's reach, I set it down, making quick eye contact as I did so.

Resting on the seat, I picked up on something. He had a scent. It was the same smell that wafted around me when I first arrived, and it was stronger in his space. It was him that created that heated scent, a certain musk smell to him. Nothing nasty or foul, but natural. Something of a man.

"The deal," I continued, "is that I get ten whole minutes alone with you. No cameras. No audio recording. Just us for ten minutes."

Looking at him then and seeing that I had his full attention, my lips parted to deliver what I had practiced multiple times before coming to the hospital.

"I only have one reason for being here, Mr. Dolarhyde, and it's to tell you something. Something important. Are you listening?"

"Uh-huh."

"I want nothing to do with you."

Emotions ran across his eyes before it chilled into a new coldness that I had yet to experience personally. They came sequentially, the emotions. First, surprise. Wider eyes and a flutter of eye lashes. Next, disgust. How dare I say that statement so bluntly. How rude of me. How inconsiderate. And finally, another emotion. It was familiar. Maybe I recalled it from the videos of his court appearances. Maybe during other interviews with psychiatrists, but never has he presented such a darkness to me before. It smoothed his facial features, all but his forehead.

"Nothing," I continued without blinking. "I want absolutely nothing from you. You are a terribleperson. You killed women. You killed children, innocent children. Innocent people. You defiled them like they were worthless, like they didn't matter. You did, and a person like you, yeah, to some degree I get it. You're dealing with some dark stuff, stuff you can barely control, and stuff that was dealt to you when you yourself were innocent. And don't get me wrong, I consider myself an advocate for the mentally ill. I do. Kind of proud of it, actually."

"But let me ask this: Would you kill me, Mr. Dolarhyde? Is that what this is? Some sick fantasy to be talking to me? Getting my sister to sit me down in this chair? Does this turn you on? Because I feel like that is one of the most logical reasons as to why you would want to talk to me. Some twisted power trip. Do you think me dainty? Weak? That you want to treat me like those women-"

"No."

Dark. His voice was black and cut in sharply.

"I don't," he told me.

"Don't what?"

Focused, resolute, I was starting to drown again in those choppy sea eyes.

"I'm not," began Mr. Dolarhyde. A swallow. "Not wanting to do that. I don't want to. I don't want to hurt you, Miss Emme."

"I don't believe you-"

"I know. And, there is nothing that I can s-say that would persuade you otherwise."

"That's right."

His eyes diverted from mine, gazing off down and to the side. Thinking. Churning, that wild mind. I couldn't help but be patient for him.

"I," he started softly. "I hope, hoped, that you weren't like your sister."

He looked back at me.

My lower lip was trembling.

I didn't turn away.

"You hurt people," I whispered. "You hurt a lot of people, Mr. Dolarhyde."

"Mhm."

"Don't you feel bad?"

He swallowed again, and though his lips parted, nothing was said by the man on the other side of those metal bars. I scoffed at myself.

"I know that was a stupid question," I said, more to myself than to Mr. Dolarhyde. "I know that you weren't entirely in the right frame of mind-"

"I wasn't whole."

"Yeah," I breathed while leaning back in the chair, my hands wiping a tear that almost got away. "Right. You weren't."

Maybe I was cracking. Yeah, that was it. I smiled to myself, adding fuel to my flammable thoughts. I was losing it. Away from home for far too long. Tired. Overwhelmed with the current situation. It might've not looked that way, but I was still terrified of him. The only thing that allowed me to sit as near as I was to Mr. Dolarhyde was the fact that he had yet to make any threatening moves towards me at all. Which meant nothing in the long run. He could make a grab at any time, but for some reason I doubted that he would. Then again, maybe I was cracking.

I should go, I thought distantly as more tears threatened to betray my mask, or what was left of it. I shouldn't be with him anymore. Not like this.

Just as I was about to rise from my place, I heard Francis Dolarhyde begin to clear his throat once more.

"Do you promise that the camera is off?" he said in a low whisper.

My eyes were still shut, my back still leaning against the chair.

"Yeah, yeah it is," I answered. "I'm, I'm the only one who can turn it back on. Those wires-"

"Are you sure?"

I frowned, but was too worn to bother.

"Yeah."

A pause.

"Mis-ss Emme," he stuttered. "I'd like you to be the only one I talk to."

"I don't think we-"

"You have to be."

I moved my hands. The new urgency in his tone made me move my hands away from my eyes. They opened. Desperate wouldn't be the right word, but it was the closest thing that I could attribute Francis Dolarhyde's face to in that moment. Desperate. Pleading.

"Did you really just ignore everything that I just told you?" I questioned. "Why in the world would you still want to talk to me?"

"Because I think you could be someone whom I could trust."

"Oh, okay."

I stood up and rolled my eyes. I looked down at him, at how those ocean eyes were teeming with energy. Mr. Dolarhyde stood, too, and I flinched away despite the bars.

"Miss Emme," he tried. "Please."

"You need to listen to what I'm telling you. I've stated time and time again, I have nothing to gain, nor to give to you."

"Then why did you turn off the camera?" he pressed.

"Because I wanted to be honest!" I told him angrily. "I wanted to say what I wanted to without having to worry about those watching on the other side. Jesus, my sister would kill me if she saw me being-"

"Yourself?"

I frowned.

"But you weren't entirely yourself, Miss Emme," he said. With pain in his eyes, he told me, "I've been called disgusting. A monster. A demon, but they, those people, they at least meant it when they said it."

"I meant it!"

"But you didn't believe everything you said!"

"I did-"

"No."

The word had weight. It raised goosebumps on my skin.

"You acted as your peers expected you to," said Mr. Dolarhyde. "Don't lie and said you were being yourself."

We stared at one another, the room eerily quiet.

The man then took a short step nearer to me.

With weaker eyes, he added softly, "You s-smile more. When you're yourself."

I shifted uncomfortably on my feet again as I gave what he said some consideration. Part of me agreed. He was right. I do think those things of him, but even those accusations, as warranted as they may be, weren't the whole picture of how I felt. There was more, but at what end would they lead to? They meant little. I was so unqualified to be standing where I was, talking to the man as I was. What I thought, what I thought of Francis Dolarhyde, who cared? I am nothing.

"You don't know me, Mr. Dolarhyde-"

"I know what you are not," he stated. "You're _not_ Dr. Ashe. Nor are you Dr. Chilton."

Filthy on the tongue and with a slight snarl, he said their names like they were a disease.

"Then who am I, Mr. Dolarhyde?" I questioned. With courage in my voice, I stepped closer to the cell, my head tilting upward just so that my eyes rested in his own. He was so damn tall. "You seemed to have drawn a solid profile in what little time we've spent together. Or at least, you believe in it."

"I, I don't know you, Miss Emme."

"You don't have a clue-"

"But, I would like to."

"Why-"

"I don't know why. Yet."

A silence followed, one marked by steady eye contact and subtle breathing. The room was warm. My mind weighed and checked the scales of my understanding of the situation. There wasn't much to go on, other than Mr. Dolarhyde's lack of trust towards his current therapists and the system as a whole. He did place a vast amount of trust in me, though his reasoning behind such a faith was as solid as the good feelings one gets while in church. Still, even his uncertain certainty instilled some interest in me towards him. Like Dom had mentioned before, there were hundreds of qualified candidates who would die to be in a position such as I was in. I didn't want this for myself. I didn't, but seeing a man like Mr. Dolarhyde essentially begging me to talk to him felt like an opportunity that I had to seize. Not for me, but for him.

Why did he hate Dom so, so much? Why did he want to believe in me?

My decision in the end boiled down to time. I only had a few months of my internship left. Afterwards, I never wanted to visit St. Louis ever again and wouldn't have to.

"Fine."

One word. Judging by his face, it wasn't enough to satisfy.

"Fine, I'll come back," I said further. "I don't know how, but I'll try to set it up. You might still have to talk to Dom though. We'll see."

A small nod. Hope in the eyes.

"Okay."

I glowered.

"I think you mean "thank you."

The man stiffened at that.

"Thank you," he said. "Miss Emme."

"You're welcome, Mr. Dolarhyde."

And then, I did it again. I ventured onto the trapeze of danger and risk, putting myself on the line unnecessarily for the sake of believing in some mirage. Some ghost of a relationship. I guess I couldn't help myself, because despite achieving so much with Francis Dolarhyde so far, I just had to push it. I just had to make sure.

It marked the halfway point between where I stood and where he stood behind the bars. My hand, out and extended and waiting. I waited for him to come closer.

God, if only I knew how long it would take for me to wait in the end of everything.

"Shake on it," I said to him when he stared at my hand like it was some alien life form. "I want you to shake my hand and agree that you will not harm me during our time together. I want you to promise me that you will be a gentleman as I expect all men in my life to be a gentleman while in my company."

Hesitancy, a great amount. His whole body showed signs of his reluctance, as if I was the danger in the room. I had to resist rolling my eyes at him again.

With a guarded expression, Francis Dolarhyde moved his hand from his side and across the threshold of his cell. Shadows cast on his face and on his knuckles. They darkened the lines of his hand, a shadowed link to a person that I had yet to know. I could feel my anxiety building and building and building as he touched me. Hot, his skin was obviously hotter than mine. A little sweaty, probably from nerves. His pulse, racing, I could feel it through his fingers as they enveloped my hand. They were calloused, his fingers and palm. I felt all these sensations at once. Maybe it was the fear that made me sensitive. I couldn't help but appreciate his handshake though. Gently. Kindly. It was not as aggressive as one would suspect. It wasn't aggressive at all.

Gently.

Kindly.

He wasn't aggressive at all.

* * *

 **Done and done. Happy this chapter is written and submitted because now, I can have some fun. Thanks for reading. 'Preciate it. -TCR**


	5. Chapter 5

What is a memory?

Loosely, a memory is a specific moment in our past conglomerated by choice words and action that has for some reason become important. They're particular scenes in our minds that with ease we can recollect and to a degree relive. These moments are special to us. They stand out, and for some they pertain to people. Specific people. Maybe someone did something that made you smile. A kind gesture. A gift. Maybe a harsh comment caused you to worry for a week, a month, a year, a lifetime. An insult. Abuse. People can impact us more than we're willing to give them credit, and as much as it pains us those we allow into our hearts are ultimately the architects of the blueprint for our human experience. The makers of our memories.

For me when I think about Francis Dolarhyde, there are five memories, five, that I will never forget.

I've already shared memories one and two. They were the catalyst of what is to come for me. The first, as it should be, began when I met him. That dreary night when I dared to wander alone to patient holding all to give him a piece of yarn like some swept sweetheart. The second memory was born from our deal, from the shaking of hands. His hands were warm, moist, and firm. It was the handshake of a nervous man. I believed him then that he wouldn't harm me. So long as I met with him like he requested, both parties could wear a semblance of a satisfaction.

Such a meeting and such a deal, as unorthodox as it all was, set in motion the third memory. On that morning a month after I shook his hand, I learned of a new side of Francis Dolarhyde.

"He's quite fond of you."

My hand paused near my lips, the spoonful of blueberry yogurt hovering just out of reach.

"I'd say that's a stretch," I replied. After swallowing the bite, I asked, "What do you mean by that? Has he said anything?"

"No."

"Then why'd you say that?"

We were lounging in Dom's office, sharing the breakfast that we packed the night before. A sly smirk graced my sister's pretty mouth, and I narrowed my eyes at her teasing superiority. Thankfully, Dom shared what was so amusing before I had the chance to gripe.

In front of her on her desk was an iPad. As she picked it up, Dom told me, "It's not so much what Francis says because God knows I can hardly get a sentence out of the man, but how he reacts. He's all nonverbals with me. Look at this."

The screen on her device lit up, and after Dom fiddled with it some more, a video recording began to play.

The video had a wide pan of a room, the same room that Dom trapped me in with Francis Dolarhyde a month earlier. I recognized the dim lighting, the glass, and the shadowy, brick walls of that part of the facility. My sister was seated on that familiar metal chair and on the other side of the glass was of course, Francis Dolarhyde.

"…glad that you are talking to someone, Mr. Dolarhyde," said Dom in the recording. "Even if it's not me. Alexandra is pretty easy to have a conversation with. You'll like her."

Mr. Dolarhyde was sitting on the edge of his mattress, eyes gazing down on the concrete floor of his cell.

"Pretty soon she's going to apply to a graduate program. Maybe in the spring," continued Dom casually. "She's smart so I bet she'll get in, no problem."

The man in the cell persisted to avoid eye contact with my older sibling, and just when I was about to ask Dom about her earlier claims of interest, her voice in the video piped up with a new energy.

"Do you like her?" she asked abruptly of her patient. " _Both_ of you?"

At her suddenness, his head snapped to stare at Dom. A look of puzzlement, the same kind that I've encountered, wretched between his eyes.

"Forgive me if I'm being too forward, Mr. Dolarhyde," she said to him. "But in the past you've had a great deal of confliction over those who entered your life, and I can't help but think about my sister. Despite what you think, I _do_ care about her well-being. That being said, I'm concerned that if your other personality-"

"The Dragon."

Dark. A dark whisper. It came from the man in the cell, from the one who became fully engaged in the conversation.

"Right," confirmed Dom. "The Dragon. Mr. Dolarhyde, do you think that the Dragon would like Alexandra? Do you think that he would be able to call Alexandra his friend?"

Blinking, the man slowly turned away from her with eyes distant and mind clearly at work. His lips moved like he was mumbling to himself. I couldn't pin down what emotion was dancing along the planes of his face. Wonderment? Anxiety?

"I mean," continued my sister.

Dolaryhde's eyes lifted to take her in again. They were filled with worry.

"Is she _worthy_ of the Dragon's presence?"

At Dom's final question, he changed. As soon as it had arrived, Francis Dolarhyde's interest in the conversation disintegrated. Slanted eyes and balled up fists that caused his nails to dig into the mattress. A sneer curled on his lips in pure disgust. He didn't answer my sister's question. He said not a word. Instead, Mr. Dolarhyde silently laid down on his side and faced away from Dom, knees pulled up to his broad chest. My sister repeated her question, but he said nothing more for the remainder of their time together.

"See?" said Dom in her office as she set her iPad to the side.

I didn't. I didn't quite see.

"He calls it "the Dragon"?" I asked her. "The other personality?"

"That he does."

"What's it like?"

Dom had risen from her place behind her desk, clipboard in hand. My sister glanced across the room at the clock that hung crookedly on the far wall.

My time with Mr. Dolarhyde was approaching.

"What?" she asked while looking down at me. "His alternate?"

"Yeah."

"I'll tell you on the way down," she said. "Come on."

The anticipation was unsettling. I knew, like most, about Francis Dolarhyde's diagnosis, that he suffered from a type of Dissociative Identity Disorder stemming from years upon years of severe childhood abuse. Textbook stuff. But of the nature of his alternate state, of its mannerisms and characteristics I knew nothing. Not one bit. I assumed it to be violent. Considering the nature of his crimes, I knew that the alternate personality probably was the more dominant when compared to Mr. Dolarhyde's typical, mild-mannered self. From the time I spent with the man, I assessed that he was soft-spoken, smart, and valued cordiality. Hints of insecurity. Shy. Nothing that would lead one to believe that he was capable of slaughtering entire families. No, of course not. But, he did. He did do those horrible things, alternate caused or not, and soon I would learn of what possesses a man in such a fit of raging madness.

What sort of evil snakes itself into the mind of the normal, to plague him with desires of hell?

"I haven't really seen it," stated my sister in the foyer down below. "Not with my own eyes. I've tried to bring it out a few times, but Francis claims that it "left him."

"Left him?"

"He said that the Dragon didn't find him "worthy" anymore. So it left, I guess."

"Oh."

"Yep."

"So, that means that he should be cured of most of his illness, right?"

Even I grimaced at the naivety in my voice. Idiot.

"Not quite," answered my sister. "There's a lot of skepticism about this type of disorder, especially in criminal cases."

"Like pleading insanity."

"Right. Given the level of meticulousness of his crimes, for Francis to say that he doesn't remember killing those people due to an alternate state is an easy way out. Lucky for him, there's evidence of the alternate present. Spared him the death penalty by the skin of his teeth."

"Video?"

"No. Audio. When the FBI was hunting him down, they recorded a phone conversation between Francis and Hannibal Lecter. On it, Francis showed signs of an alternate: changed tone of voice, changed speech patterns, you know."

"Huh."

"Yep, but I haven't spoken to it. Shocker."

"Maybe it _is_ gone like Mr. Dolarhyde said."

"That's where most professionals who've treated him are torn, Al. We don't really know. But according to Dr. Chilton's accounts, I'd have to be careful if it does spring up. Not a friendly persona, that's for sure."

"Well, I hope it is gone. Hopefully for good."

Dom made a face at my words. Quirked eye brow and a head tilt.

"What?" I asked defensively. "Do you honestly blame me for wanting a mentally ill man's bloodthirsty alter ego to be out of the picture? It'd be good for everyone, I think, Mr. Dolarhyde included. And while we're on the topic, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't pitch me to this "Dragon" from now on. I have enough unstable relationships in my life, thank you."

I wanted her to tell me more, to elaborate, but seeing my sister look down at her wrist for the time told me that I missed my chance.

I had to go. I had to see Mr. Dolarhyde.

Just as I was about to step away from Dom, her cold fingers found their way around my wrist.

"Wait," she told me. "I almost forgot."

Looking down, I saw that in her hand was a small white envelope with my name neatly printed on the front.

"You got mail," she said unnecessarily. "This arrived in the mail for you yesterday. Henry accidently had it in his work pile."

I reached out and took the envelope. I read over my name one more time and saw that the return address was from somewhere in Colorado, in a city outside of my hometown. After thanking Dom, I tucked the envelope away in the backpack I carried with me. It would have to be read later.

An entire month would pass before the third memory was made. Felt longer than a month. Like ages, really. During that time, an unspoken routine was established between Mr. Dolarhyde and me. I would walk in the morning down to patient holding, typically escorted by Dillon Colt, the guard who loathed taking me to Mr. Dolarhyde's cell probably as much as he loathed Mr. Dolarhyde. He was waiting for me in the foyer outside of patient holding. As I approached, Dillon offered a closed lip smile. I offered nothing.

Our conversations were like eating old bread. Stale, painful, and not worth the effort.

"He's a piece of shit, Miss Emme, that's all I'm saying."

"Noted."

"The worst kind. You're wasting your time talkin' to garbage like Dolarhyde."

"Your advice is always a pleasure, Mr. Colt, but I think that I can do whatever I wish with my time, and am capable of determining what is wasteful and what is not on my own."

"Psh, okay, princess."

A roll of the eyes coupled his dismissal. I withheld my own.

"And why do you care?" I asked. "Not like anything can come from me "wasting" what is mine."

"Just don't get it."

"Get what?"

"Why you treat him like a human being. Like he didn't kill kids and defile the corpses of dead wives."

My mouth opened to say something, but my voice and confidence were beached in my throat.

Dillon Colt chuckled.

"See?" he breathed. "Even you can't justify yourself. What, did you forget he did that stuff-"

"Of course not."

"So?"

"So what? I'm supposed to answer you?"

"Just wanna see if you can."

I scoffed.

"I don't have to explain myself to you, Dillon. You're no angel either. I've seen what you've done. You abuse the patients here. I saw the bruises."

"That's 'cause I'm not delusional like you. And for the record, just Dolarhyde gets special treatment-"

"Because he's defenseless-"

"Bullshit."

"You cuff him all the time. What else is he supposed to do?"

"Francis Dolarhyde had a jacket on when he bit into that staff member in Buffalo. 'Parently got a lady in Atlanta, too. Nearly took her fingers when she tried to sedate him in his cell. What do you have to say about that?"

My frustration threatened to boil over. I could feel it heating up my collar and climbing up my neck like a spider. Instead of letting him have it though, I held it inside. I made myself cool down.

"Nothing," I said through a tight jaw. "I have nothing to say."

"Doubt that."

"Well, okay. Fine. Here's some advice of my own: If you're going to torture him and be a flagrant asshole, then you all better be careful when your backs are turned."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm. Here, let me break it down for you: Mr. Dolarhyde is a smart, tactical man. His file said that he has military experience, so I'm guessing that he knows how to make a plan work. Also, the fact that he was able to successfully break into two homes after casing them weeks in advance says that he's patient. He's capable of waiting for opportunities, Dillon. Now, do you really think that the only reason he hasn't retaliated against you yet is because he _can't_? You said so yourself, he's gotten others at different hospitals. What makes this one any different? What makes you think that he's not simply waiting for the right moment to have his way with you?"

Looking the guard over, I could tell that my words sunk in. Dillon blinked at me with bright eyes and with a twitchy mouth on his chapped lips. Whether he was angered or scared, it was hard to tell. And I didn't really care. I left him with one more sliver of advice before I went to see the one he was secretly terrified of.

"Just saying," I said quietly. "I'd rather a man like Dolarhyde respect me than hate me."

In conclusion, that's how most of our conversations would go, Mr. Colt and I's. A merry go round of sharp comments and high-horsed justification in which both participants refused to get off on. Or maybe he got off on it. I always walked away more annoyed than ever.

From the hallway, I would enter the room where Mr. Dolarhyde's cell was located and our time would begin. One hour just he and I. The cameras would roll for fifty minutes, and for the remaining ten there would be no recordings. None.

Alone, I stood outside the door to patient holding. I had one minute left. With a deep inhale and exhale, I opened the door and stepped inside the room. I entered the void to speak to the Tooth Fairy killer.

Instantly, my lips pursed.

"God, it's hot in here. Do you feel that?"

No answer.

I kept walking further into the room despite the hot, sauna-like atmosphere. Despite the silence my question was met with.

"I mean, do you like it this way?" I said. "How humid it is in here?"

"Hm."

A subtle sound. More like a grunt.

"That wasn't much of an answer," I murmured under my breath. The backpack I brought with me was set beside the metal chair before I straightened up to stare into the darkness.

"Words are always appreciated, Mr. Dolarhyde," I stated. "Even the singular responses."

My frame lingered beside the seat. There it was again. The daily conundrum. That chair. A large part of me didn't want to sit on it, on the metal chair allotted to me by the hospital. It felt impersonal for some reason, almost impolite to use a chair while he had none. The same conundrum day by day, and in the end, I gave the same answer. The sound that the legs made on the concrete floor as I scooted it backwards was unpleasant, but I did feel better with it out of view. I always did.

"S'fine," a husky voice grumbled from somewhere across the room.

Ah, he spoke.

I smiled a little to myself. It was satisfying to hear it. His voice. I was sitting down on the floor a few feet from the bars when he at last said something to me.

"What's fine?" I asked.

"The heat. It doesn't bother me. I don't, don't feel it."

"Really? Wait, you just worked out, didn't you?"

"I did."

"I see why it doesn't bother you then. You're the boiler."

Silence.

"Sorry if I sounded creepy just then," I added. "I just know your schedule by now."

"Mhm."

"Can you do me a favor?"

Another pause, but I knew he was simply waiting.

"Could you move closer to the, um, bars, please? I want to see you."

A few seconds passed before I heard his padded footsteps.

And then there he was in the light. Enigma and all.

Francis Dolarhyde.

Something was different. Maybe it was his hair? No, still dark and short. There was some upkeep to it, I noticed, some effort at styling. I think he smooths it down even if he doesn't have a mirror. Habit perhaps. The man obviously wore the same clothes, so I knew that they couldn't be what was altered in his appearance. Maybe it was his face. Yes, that was it. Had to be. Looking at him under the warm glow of the single light source in the room I saw that the hostile knittedness in his features, the harsh brow and set jaw, had softened. Not by much, but enough to make Mr. Dolarhyde seem more at ease, even with a sheen layer of sweat across the forehead. Working out indeed. Probably got rid of a lot of stress that way, and it showed. There was another part that was different about his face, a part that flustered me on the inside. His bottom lip was healing. It was still a little swollen, and I could make out a red line where the delicate flesh had split. Despite his injury, however, the man looked calm, and not like he was about to unhinge at any moment and say, chew my lips off.

He took his place right behind the bars as I asked, mirroring me and sitting crossed-legged.

"It's raining again," I announced. "In case you were wondering."

A curt nod.

"I know."

Throaty. Rich. His voice contrasted my own by so much.

"How? Do they tell you the weather?"

The man frowned at my question, but there was another emotion. Something light-hearted. A small twitch in the corner of his mouth.

"No. No, they wouldn't tell me about the weather," he replied quietly.

"Then how did you know that it's raining outside?" I pressed.

Almost. Almost there. I saw it. So fast.

A smile.

Then it faded into nothing.

"Your coat," Mr. Dolarhyde said, eyes pointing to my body. "You're wearing a rain jacket."

I blinked and dumbly glanced down at myself.

"It's wet," he muttered.

Oh. The droplets sprinkled on my shoulders, small and dark. The dampness on my skin. My frizzy hair.

A pinch of embarrassment warmed my cheeks as I shifted my eyes from my black rain jacket and back to his face.

"Right," I breathed. Then with a smile, I added, "Let's pretend I didn't ask that."

"Okay."

A brief glimmer of amusement flashed in his eyes before they dimmed into that puzzling gaze of his. Like clockwork, that mystery. It came and went each time we were together, but I'd like to think that it stayed for shorter periods of time the more I saw him. Moment by moment. I wanted to believe that in those visits, the man started to trust me.

"How much longer is it going, is it going to rain?" he then asked me.

"Not really sure," I answered with a limp shrug of the shoulder. "The weatherman says 'til the end of the week, but you never really know. It's bleak out there. I think we're in for a big storm today."

His head nodded at the information, his eyes looking down and off to the side. I took his quiet as an opportunity to dig into my backpack for our first activity.

"What section do you want to start in today?" I asked Mr. Dolarhyde as I carefully took out a folded newspaper from the larger pocket. "Sports?" I said teasingly.

A short chuckle left him.

"No," he said. "Art and Culture. Please."

"Yes, sir. Let's see. Well, according to a lady named Estelle Grant, the new gallery downtown is a "must see."

"Hm."

"Uh-huh. If you're into overpriced minimalism, the gallery is right up your alley."

I flipped the paper over so he could see the large photographs of the news story. His eyes studied the pictures, going over the milky paper with deep interest. I then spread out the section on the floor in front of where he sat, opening the newspaper in my hand again and moving on to the next article.

"There are movie reviews, too. Want me to read them to you?"

"No," he replied bluntly. "But, are there literature reviews?"

"There are."

"Will you please read those to me?"

"Yes, sir. Fiction, nonfiction, or memoir?"

"Nonfiction."

"Okay. Uh, there's a book that was released on the life of early Irish immigrants, comparing their hardships to that of early American settlers, precolonial days. It's titled _Green On The Scene_. According to the author, the conditions are similar in that…"

And so on. And so forth.

That's how simple it really was sitting with Francis Dolarhyde. The conversation flowed almost smoothly, with moments of slight awkwardness entering every now and again. He still stuttered, still had qualms with that dreaded 's', but only when he asked me questions, never when answering anything I ever asked of him. Of course, when one's answers consisted mostly of "Mhm"s and "Uh-huh"s, there wasn't much for the tongue to trip over.

And I liked it when he asked me things. His questions were thoughtful, usually because they revealed how much he was really listening to me. One time he asked how my friends were doing back home. It was unexpected, but I answered him the same, told him of one of my friend's latest breakups with her boyfriend. I figured that he would find the story dull, but never once did he break eye contact with me, nor show any signs of boredom. While I laid out more of the newspaper on the floor, Mr. Dolarhyde inquired about my friend, if she was feeling better.

"She is," I said, not bothering to hide the surprise in my voice. "Still a little sad though."

"Mhm."

"I don't blame her. I'd be upset, too. I mean, they were together for two years. Everything seemed fine and to be honest, I kinda wanted something like they had."

"Like what?"

"That's a loaded question," I breathed. "Just what everyone wants, I guess. To be understood by someone. To be known. They seemed like they had it all together. It appeared effortless, their relationship."

I cracked another smile and let a small laugh leave my mouth. Mr. Dolarhyde's curious expression made me feel like I needed to elaborate.

"Sorry, I just feel naïve talking to you about this stuff."

"What s-stuff?"

My smile weakened.

"I don't know," I said. "Relationships. Doesn't seem appropriate to talk about."

"Oh."

"Not that I don't like to!" I clarified quickly. "We can talk about whatever you want! I just don't want to put you to sleep with any of my stories-"

"You don't."

His statement was so clear, so forward that I was a little taken back by it.

He swallowed before his lips parted.

"I find you very interesting, Miss Emme. I'm not bored at all."

Mr. Dolarhyde wasn't looking at me when he said those words. He looked to the side, avoiding eye contact. I couldn't tell if he was blushing or not, but I would definitely say that he was mildly uncomfortable. The red string was being tightly wrung between his fingers over and over again.

"Good," I said with a small nod. "It makes me happy to hear you say that, Mr. Dolarhyde, and you know-"

A boisterous ringing sound blared inside the patient holding room. It bounced off the walls and blew right through me like an angry specter. My hands immediately rose to cover my ears as every muscle of mine locked up at the sudden, painful intrusion of noise. Francis Dolarhyde, too, was looking about his cell, eyes wide and hands shielding his ears.

As the sound continued, I rose from the floor and sped towards the security camera that was positioned in the corner of the room.

"Hey!" I shouted through the alarm. "Hey! What's going on?"

I stared at the camera, at the all-seeing eye. I don't know what I expected to happen. Maybe for a guard or orderly to come in and fetch me. Maybe for the sound to stop.

And it did. Just like that. The sound, it stopped and all was quiet in the patient holding room. It felt supernatural. Like that eerie silence that brings more dread than comfort.

Such a feeling doesn't do much for the nervous heart, especially when in the blink of an eye, I became enshrouded in darkness.

With a sharp clanking noise, the one source of light in the entire room shut off. A quick intake of air hissed passed my lips as I trembled in the pitch.

"Wh-What's happening?" I asked in the direction of the camera. "What's going on?"

Another metallic sound. Two clanks and the slow creak of metal twisting.

I was still standing where the camera was back near the corner of the room. Like the bulbs overhead, the red light of the camera was extinguished. There was no one watching me anymore.

I was alone.

Well, not quite.

"Mr. Dolarhyde?"

I heard nothing. Not even the sound of him breathing.

"Mr. Dolarhyde, are you okay?" I called.

"I am."

His answer made me flinch. I had no idea where he was in the room anymore. Surely, he was on the other side of the bars, but for some reason I felt that he was somehow nearer to where I stood.

"Okay," I said. "Alright, good. Um, stupid question, but do you know what the hell is going on?"

Some movement. Shuffling and a hollow exhale.

"Mr. Dolarhyde-"

"No," he said softly. "I don't."

Positioned in another place. Yes, he had moved. His voice was somewhere else in the room.

Gaining a veneer of courage, I, too, moved about the space. Knowing that the brick wall was behind me, I stuck out my hand and slowly stalked backwards. The cold, rough surface of the brick soon met my fingertips.

"I'm going to try the door," I announced while following the wall. "Maybe someone's in the hall or at the front desk."

When I made my way to the corner by the entrance to patient holding, I saw that there was no light seeping through where I believed the door to be. All I could see was an abyss of black.

"The lights must be out everywhere," I mumbled. "Maybe, maybe a power outage or something's wrong with the central mainframe. I don't know."

Fingers free and reaching, I continued to walk until I could feel the painfully cold surface of the door's handle. Relief flooded my chest like cool water on a summer's day.

With a firm tug, I tried the door. I pulled again. My teeth grit as I pulled harder, and harder, the locking mechanism not even budging at my efforts.

There was no getting out.

"Shit," I muttered.

"The door is locked."

It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, it is," I confirmed to Mr. Dolarhyde. "I have no idea what the fuck is going on."

"Are you afraid?"

The lump that had formed in my throat felt heavy like a stone.

Instead of answering out loud, I kept my thoughts to myself. My hand reached out again, and with carefulness I wandered about the room with it clinging to the wall. It bothered me that the only sounds I heard were my breathing and the gentle steps I made as I moved. I might as well have been alone in there.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked. "You're thoughtfully quiet."

Something hard bumped my shoe. I lurched and moved back a small step or two. What I ran into was skinny and tall, that much I could tell as I ran my hand around it. I realized then that it was one of the bars to a holding cell. I had managed to traverse half of the room. Bar by bar, I touched the metal barrier as I searched for the cell in which Mr. Dolarhyde resided. His was the third cell. I remembered.

"Words are always appreciated, Mr. Dolarhyde."

"I'm sorry."

My steps ceased.

"For what?" I asked.

"For not easing your fears, Miss Emme. I could be doing a better job."

One foot ahead of the other, I kept moving along the bars. I guessed that I was at the third cell, judging by how many steps I had taken.

"Probably," I said with a small, unseen shrug. "Staying quiet like you are isn't helping."

"I'm sorry-"

"You don't have to apologize. I like that you're a quiet person. Means your words are more selective."

"Do you?" questioned Mr. Dolarhyde.

I had to be at his cell. Had to be, but something was off. His voice told me I was wrong about where I thought I was.

Steadily taking short strides, a deep frown settled on my face as I reached the end of his cell. It was then that I bumped into another object. It hit the tips of my shoes. Vibrating. A metal sound. Bars. More bars. Tall, skinny bars that stood in front of me and adjacent to the bars on my fingers.

"D-Do I what?" I mumbled.

It didn't make sense. Why were there bars adjacent to the barrier between Mr. Dolarhyde and me? Why were they swung open?

"Mr. Dolarhyde?"

Silence.

"Mr. Dolarhyde?"

"Yes?"

In that moment, I could have screamed. I could have collapsed from fright. His voice was no longer far away. He was not fortified by the measures of mankind. No. It wasn't coming from the other side of the bars, distant and away from me.

His voice was directly behind me.

Something touched my arm. Immediately, I yelped and stepped away, running right into the bars that were positioned in front of me. They shook as I fumbled to the ground.

I couldn't see him. I couldn't see anything. But I could hear. I could hear that he was close, the closest he has ever been near me since I met him.

"H-How are you out here?" I cried. "How'd you get out?"

If his silence was unnerving before, it was absolutely terrifying when I knew that Francis Dolarhyde wasn't in his cell. Roaming freely in the dark, I didn't know what he was doing or where exactly he was. I had never felt so vulnerable in my life.

But then, I heard him. Barely. I barely could make out some words.

"…I, I don't want to."

Soft. Low.

"S-She's s-sweet…No, no, no, no, no. I, don't want to see that. No! No!"

In little whispers. Distant, faraway whispers. He had wandered away from me.

"…different. She's different, I promise! Not, not like her sis-sis-sister. I promise, you'll see. Meet her. Please…She's been _kind_ to me. I like her the way she is…Breathing…"

Slowly, I stood from the hard, dusty floor of the patient holding room. I waited and listened.

"…No, it's better _now_ …"

There. A few steps in front of me. I began walking towards his voice.

"…No, no, no, no. Her smile is better the way it is…I like her…Please…"

"Mr. Dolarhyde?" I called quietly. "Mr. Dolarhyde."

A quiet sob. My concern grew exponentially at his aggravated cry.

"Mr. Dolarhyde," I repeated. "Where are you?"

"I'm, I'm fine," I heard him say.

Yes. I found him. He was breathing heavily in short, shuddering gasps.

"You don't sound fine," I said. "Are you alright?"

He was in front of me. I could hear and feel his hot breaths as they left him. Warm exhales that shook with every expire.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I," he started to say. "I don't want to hurt you."

I swallowed.

"I don't want you to hurt me either."

"But, he wants-s me to."

Mr. Dolarhyde's voice was strained, muffled. In my mind I pictured him bent over and holding his head in his hands like he did in his interviews with Dr. Chilton. I pictured his eyes clenched shut and a pained expression touching every feature of his face.

"Are you talking about the Dragon?" I asked softly.

A gasp and another sob.

"She _told_ you?" he exasperated. "She told you about the Dragon?"

"Only after I asked," I replied quickly.

"She has no right!"

"I asked," I said. "Me."

"I, I don't want to do it. I don't want to hurt you-"

"Then don't. Don't hurt me."

"But, he wants me to-"

"You can't."

"I can't?"

"Nope. You promised me."

"I-"

"Hey!" I said firmly.

Into the darkness, I blindly reached forward and found the man. I felt the fabric of his shirt and gripped it the second I made contact. It was damp with what I assumed to be Mr. Dolarhyde's tears.

"We made a deal, Francis," I said to him as I held on to his jumpsuit. He didn't fight me. He let me touch him. The man let me keep him there, why I had no idea. God knew he was strong enough to rip me apart. "A deal. We shook on it, remember? You promised me that you would not hurt me and that you would be a gentleman. Remember? One month ago you made me that promise."

"I-"

"You promised, Francis. You said that you would."

"Okay-"

"Okay, what?"

A deep breath. It blew across my cheeks.

"I, I promised you that," he murmured. "You're, you're right, Miss-ss Emme."

At his answer, my hand let go of his clothes. His breathing had noticeably settled.

"Thank you, Mr. Dolarhyde," I said. "And you may call me Alexandra."

"Uh-huh. Okay."

As great as an accomplishment as it was for me to be able to calm Francis Dolarhyde down, that is not the third memory that means so much to me.

Calming him down from his break with reality, no, no it was too easy. It was too simple.

The man was before me. His body heat, his scent, that unexplainable sensation that you have when you're in proximity of another person told me that Francis Dolarhyde stood right in front of where I was in the pitch blackness that was the patient holding room.

I flinched when I felt him. The hot surface of his palms held my cheeks. His fingers tangled themselves in my hair. Gently. Kindly. He held me still.

"Shh," he soothed as I tried to jerk away from him. "Shh."

"What, what are you-"

"Shh," he breathed.

Panic seized me. I felt the need to flee as my heart rate banged in my ears. Where I would go, I had no earthly idea. I just needed him away from me. I didn't like that he could touch me, that I couldn't even see his face. But as I tried to move, to run, to escape, I couldn't will my body to act. My legs were heavy like lead.

Close. When he breathed out, the air tickled my skin.

"Alexandra," he sighed.

"Wh-What are, are you doing, Mr. D-Dolar-"

"Francis," he corrected lowly. "You may call me that from now on."

Slowly, he tilted my head back. I didn't know what he was thinking, what he had in mind. All I could do was wait for him to do something. That was probably the most frightening thing of the entire situation I was in.

Waiting.

Warm flesh grazed itself on the corner of my jaw. I stiffened as Mr. Dolarhyde's lips tentatively ran themselves down my neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin twice before settling on my pulse.

"F-Francis," I squeaked out as tears threatened to spill from my shut eyes.

"No."

I swallowed and I swear the man was smiling against my throat.

"Not Francis," he groaned. "I am other. I am _greater_."

Ran like rivers down my cheeks. My tears. Streams that carried my hopelessness.

"Then, who, who are you?" I asked thickly. "And what do you want with me? To kill me?"

"No."

Clanking. The sharp sounds of heavy machinery kicking in. Voices, too. Loud and desperate. But I couldn't quite hear them. I knew they were saying words, but I was too focused on the man whose teeth kept running themselves over my heartbeat. On his smile.

"They're coming for you," he said in a low growl. Bitter. "Our time is up."

"Who are you?"

"You know."

To that, I didn't know what to say. He smiled again.

"I need you to know something, Alexandra. Something essential for the rest of our time together."

The bulb overhead flickered. I could heard the locking mechanism on the door unhinge. His mouth pulled away. He let go of me completely.

"Don't trust them," said Francis Dolarhyde. "Don't trust anybody here. And I, I don't exist."

"What do you mean?" I cried. "They have to know you're not better-"

The light flickered longer. It revealed him to me. Standing so tall and broad. He was so different than I knew him to be.

"We like you," he said. "I want to eat you whole."

All at once, the lights came back on and the room was filled with guards. They ran into the room, guns out and pointed at the man in the jumpsuit. Francis Dolarhyde had lowered himself to his knees, but the guards felt the need to subdue him anyway. As someone escorted me out of the room, I caught the sight of an orderly jab a syringe into Dolarhyde's neck. The man wasn't even fighting. He let himself be taken down on to the dirty floor of the holding room.

His eyes never broke from mine.

Out in the foyer, the air was cooler and the room brighter. My eyes were squinting when a familiar face approached me and led me by the arm to a chair.

"Miss Emme," said Dr. Chilton. He looked worried. "Miss Emme, you're safe now."

"I, I know," I answered listlessly.

"Miss Emme? Miss Emme, look at me."

"What happened?"

"Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?"

I couldn't answer. I had no control. A hysteric swell of emotion, all the swallowed fear and panic that I managed to stuff down bubbled over and out in the form of never-ending tears and deep, deep sobs. I fell into pieces. I crumbled while inhaling gulps of Dr. Chilton's cologne while I cried into his suit jacket.

I don't remember much of the rest of the day.

Only bits.

Dr. Chilton holding and consoling me.

A blanket over my shoulders.

A mild sedative.

And the perplexed look on Dom's face as I saw her over Dr. Chilton's shoulder.

* * *

 **I don't know about you all, but my life has been pretty hectic as of late. Hence, I haven't been able to write for this story or for _No_. Writing is a fun hobby for me, but trust me, I understand how much waiting sucks when it comes to having patience for a writer to get a new chapter out there. _No_ hasn't been abandoned, by the way. Anywho, thank you for the patience you all have been giving me. I enjoy how much _Fervor_ is being enjoyed by you all. Best, TCR**


	6. Chapter 6

Up the sidewalk in the trees, I saw a pair of happy blue birds singing on a limb. Their little heads twitched in that quirky way birds do, and for a minute I became lost in the peacefulness of their presence. They distracted me from what Dr. Chilton had said. Remembering him, I looked to the side and caught the anticipation in his stare.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I asked of him.

Dr. Chilton, dressed in a black pea coat with a light gray suit underneath and its complementary silver tie, walked along with me on the hard pavement. The chilled weather called for the comfort of winter clothes and despite the cold, we both thought that a stroll to a nearby coffee shop would serve as a decent backdrop for our daily time together.

The psychiatrist patiently asked his question for a second time.

"I asked about how your friends are enjoying St. Louis."

The happiness, as fleeting as it was, was enough to draw a small smile on my lips.

"They like it," I told him. "At least, that's what they say. I think they're just happy we're all together."

"And how many of them are visiting?"

"Four."

"Hm, a home full of twenty-somethings. You're brother-in-law must be thrilled."

I chuckled at Chilton's morose tone.

"Sounds like any man's dream," I said.

"I hope it's not your brother-in-law's."

"Henry's a saint. He's just prepping for daughters, I think."

"Have you been able to sleep? Or better yet, with your friends in town, are you sleeping well?"

"Oh, not well," I sighed. "Not well at all. I must've woken up at least three times. Maybe four."

"Nightmares, I assume?"

"Not nightmares. My brain wants to stay awake."

"Do you feel tired today?"

"Incredibly. I nodded off in the car this morning and I never do that. Gah, I feel awful."

As if on cue, a yawn emerged from my exhausted body. I rubbed one drowsy eye as he pressed the rusted button on the street sign that would allow us to cross the intersection.

"I'm not surprised to hear that you're struggling to sleep well," he commented. "And I know that I don't need to go into the woes of life post-trauma with you. But if it's any consolation, I would say that this afternoon, Miss Emme, you appear more relaxed than you have all week."

I found myself nodding at Dr. Chilton's observation though on the inside, I knew that what he said wasn't true.

Relaxed? That would be a very strong word for how I felt since the incident in the patient holding room. I was anxious. I was anxious in a way that most probably wouldn't be after such an event.

While yes, it was a distressing thought to know that the Tooth Fairy killer, _the_ Francis Dolarhyde touched his teeth to my skin, at my throat, that recollection wasn't entirely what made me nervous.

We entered the coffee shop with Dolarhyde's troubled eyes in my mind.

"Being away has made a difference," I said as I leaned into my chair. "I've got to spend time with my friends, but I'm wanting to get back to work if I'm allowed to."

The small table we sat at was positioned by the window, the passing of cars and pedestrians in plain sight. Our pastries devoured, all that was left were the crumbs and our red Starbucks cups, his labeled "Fred" in black marker. Dr. Chilton glowered at the writing before speaking.

"You've always been allowed to return."

"That's not true."

A smirk.

"And here I thought you enjoyed our time together," he chided. "You said so yourself yesterday that you haven't been absolutely miserable in my presence."

"I haven't been. Miserable, I mean," I retorted with my own smirk. Before taking a sip of my latte, I added, "I can tell that Dom doesn't want me back though."

"Oh, your sister wants you back, but only if she feels that you can prove to do more good than harm."

"At what point would I be considered "not harmful?" Actually, at what point have I caused harm to begin with?"

"You haven't caused harm at all. In my opinion, anyway."

"I just feel like I'm being kept away-"

"You are."

"But, but you just said that-"

"I know. You are of course allowed to resume your internship, but only when you are deemed capable of resuming. Why do you think your sister was so insistent about having your friends over for the weekend?"

"To prevent a mental breakdown."

His head nodded to the left and right, thinking on my words.

"Yes and no. I'd say that you needed a boost of positivity. It certainly would make anyone ready to resume taxing work so long as their own mental health was squared away. Until then, to a certain degree you are being "kept away," and for your own wellbeing."

"I'm fine."

"Are you?"

At his directness, I faltered and took another sip. He was always pointed with me. So unwavering. During the past several days, I had grown to like Dr. Chilton for it. Sure, he can be a prick, but for some people I think his attitude serves him well. People like me, for instance, the type who like to banter with those they feel comfortable with. A little bit of sass here and there. Of course, I didn't think such a thing before I started seeing him as my temporary psychiatrist. Trauma does that, I suppose.

It brings people together.

"You're wanting to return to your internship," he started. "Commendable, but why now? Was there a moment in which you decided that it was time to return?"

I thought on his questions before setting my cup back down on the table.

"Four days sounds like enough, I guess," I said to him. "I don't want it to beat me, you know?"

"You don't want what to beat you?"

A small quiet settled in while I foraged for the right words. Dr. Chilton waited patiently for my answer, gingerly swirling the warm liquid in his cup with a plastic straw.

"The fear," I said at last. "I don't want to be controlled by something like my fears."

"Fear does have the power to cripple us. That is an important notion to recognize, Alexandra, and your internship is supposed to challenge you academically, not psychologically-"

"With a profession that involves working with the mentally disturbed, shouldn't I experience some challenge that impacts my own well-being-"

"Yes, but not like this."

His change of tone was so abrupt that it nearly startled me in my seat.

"Not to a level in which your personal safety and feelings of security are breached," continued Dr. Chilton. "Especially, I might add, for someone like you."

Dr. Chilton's eyes are like mood rings. When we were walking to the coffee shop, they were green. A nice, leafy green dancing in the sunlight. Under the bulbs of the coffee shop, however, they were more of a hazel, more brown than green actually. The color seemed to intensify as his resolve did.

"I must ask, Alexandra. Does your desire to return to your internship have anything to do with the incident back home?"

Oh.

 _That._

Glancing down, my fingernails suddenly became the most interesting thing in the room. I picked at the dark red polish painted there while Dr. Chilton's words slowly sunk in.

"I, I don't know," I said softly. "Sorta, I guess."

A weak answer. I don't like feeling small.

"You understand my concern then if your reasoning is based on that particular event, don't you?"

His voice carried a sort of gentle authority in it, like that of a parent. It coaxed me into talking some more, though part of me didn't want to say another word on the subject.

"I do," I said. "I understand, but I don't think they're related. Not in that way at least."

"In what way are they related then?"

I swallowed and bit back tears, building my courage up out of sand.

"It was just really, really dark in there," I began. "In that room. So dark that I couldn't see anything, not even my own hand. Not Mr. Dolarhyde either. It just, just reminded me of, of that one time, you know?"

"Because of the darkness-"

"Yes."

"I see. That sounds very disconcerting, Alexandra."

I let out a weak laugh as a rebel tear trailed half way down my cheek. I swiped it before it could go any further.

"Did Mr. Dolarhyde touch you?" asked Dr. Chilton. "I know you've answered this question before-"

"No. He didn't. He didn't touch me at all."

The psychiatrist nodded before taking a short drink.

"But he did speak," he confirmed.

"He did. A lot of gibberish. I think the dark freaked him out, too."

"Doubt it," he said flippantly. "If anything, Francis Dolarhyde was probably debating on whether or not to kill you."

"Well, he didn't."

Dr. Chilton gave a small nod, the skin above his eyes pulling upward.

"That he didn't. Of the nature of his words, Dolarhyde's, did he say anything that resonated? Anything that would be of importance?"

"No," I said. "No, all he kept saying was that it was dark and asking what was going on."

"I see."

Looking at the man across from me as he gazed past the glass beside him, I could tell that there were things that he wanted to say, but for some reason didn't. He had that jittery energy in the eyes as if his thoughts carried a light of their own and as they raced across his mind in rapid fire, a shimmer of their brilliance could be seen from the outside world. Maybe Dr. Chilton was being merciful and holding back his curiosity. Maybe he thought me unready for such forwardness. Either way, I was thankful that he kept most of his questions to himself.

According to my sister, the storm that blew through that day was a hell raiser. It was strong enough to knock out the power in the whole damn building, as well as the surrounding district's. Which, wouldn't be a big deal because storms happen. They're an expected part of life, and with the hospital's backup generators things should have ran smoothly. However, the upper and lower levels of the hospital run on different networks. Something having to do with renovations, separate building schematics and whatnot. Since the upper level is primarily office space and requiring less security measures, its system is completely different than the lower levels. Down below are patient cells and medical wings, places where drugs as well as violent individuals are kept in secure rooms. Unlike the upper level, the lower system's generators did not kick in, and while the security system locked down the cells in other parts of the facility, patient holding's mechanisms extended only to the main entrances and not to the individual cells inside. Those cells, according to Dom, were meant for "temporary use" only. They were designed strictly for holding patients if they were being transported to a different facility, or if they were having their routine cell check.

What I didn't understand was why the cells opened in the first place. Even in the case of flooding, not much good could come out of a patient roaming freely in the patient holding room, or worse, the wing. Unless the system was completely overridden, I couldn't see how the cell doors, just one cell door for that matter, would open during a power outage.

Another issue I had regarding the incident was why Francis Dolarhyde was kept in a cell that wasn't even meant for long-term stays. His profile was littered with red flags. It wasn't a real mystery if Mr. Dolarhyde was dangerous or not, incarcerated or not. So, that being said, why would a high-profile, violent patient be kept in a holding cell that was not properly equipped to handle his behavioral tendencies?

I mean, really, what the fuck.

A multitude of questions surrounding that day swirled and twirled against the walls of my brain, but as much as I longed for answers I haven't been able to ask Dom about it. She dismissed my earlier attempts, stating that the issues are being resolved and that people lost their jobs because of it. In trying to soothe my fears, I think she missed the point. I didn't care about prevention, just how such a thing could have happened in the first place.

Dom still avoids the topic. To be honest, I think she's just embarrassed about the whole thing.

I didn't remember much after I was taken out of the holding room. After Dom checked on me, she stomped off to give the maintenance men an earful. Dr. Chilton then escorted me to Dom's office and arranged for me to get a ride back to Dom's house. Since then, I have seen Dr. Chilton every day for laxed sessions like the one in the coffee shop. We never met in an office.

Before I could stop it, a new thought made its way past my lips and into the air.

"How is Mr. Dolarhyde doing?" I said brightly.

Dr. Chilton didn't bother hiding his expression from me. It went from minor disbelief to loathing exasperation.

Seeing his face made me hate myself.

"I keep talking about him," I said to Dr. Chilton quietly. "I don't mean to, but he just pops up in my head sometimes. I, I keep bringing him up to my friends. Of course, they don't know who I'm talking about, who I'm _really_ talking about. I say that Mr. Dolarhyde is a "friend from work."

"And what is it about Francis Dolarhyde that you are sharing with your friends?"

"Nothing exciting. The other day my friends and I were talking about books, about the new ones that they're reading back home. I said that my "friend from work" doesn't like fiction, that he's more of a nonfiction, historical-artsy type."

"Is that all you tell them?"

"No."

"What else?"

A thick lump had formed in my throat.

"I tell them the stories he's told me. About his time in the military, about his trips to Hong Kong, and how he used to process film."

I scoffed.

"They say that they want to meet him soon," I murmured. "I said that he's too busy to ever meet outside of work, and that it'd be inappropriate."

When I was through, Dr. Chilton allowed me to collect myself. Had I known that such a subject would feel like a confession, I would have never brought it up. He knew though. Dr. Chilton knew how I viewed Mr. Dolarhyde, how he had become some warped friend of mine over the past several weeks. Maybe Dr. Chilton wanted me to see it, too.

"I wouldn't know how he is, how he truly is anyway," he answered plainly. "He won't talk to me, nor your sister for that matter."

A long sip, then a thoughtful glance.

"He really has it in for her," he said.

"So I noticed. Why does he hate her so much?"

"Hate?" resounded Dr. Chilton. "Is that the word that Dolarhyde used?"

"No. He hasn't said those exact words, but he compares me to her sometimes. He said that he hopes I'm not like Dom. What does he mean by that, you think?"

"I can only guess it's because Francis Dolarhyde is overly concerned about feeling inadequate and emasculated. His obsession with his body image can attest to that. Your sister is confident and physically attractive. She also is in a position of power and authority, much greater than the current position that Dolarhyde finds himself in. In her entirety, your sister is everything that Dolarhyde is afraid of: A dominate woman who views him as lesser."

From hearing Dr. Chilton's explanation, I frowned. I didn't like it.

"I don't think that Dom views him as lesser-"

"Francis Dolarhyde is a paranoid man of delusion, Alexandra. It doesn't matter what actually is, but only how it is perceived."

"Oh. Okay, well, what do I need to do to get back to my internship?"

"Nothing, really. The decision is entirely up to me."

"And?"

A ghost of a smile touched his features. Looking at it across from me, I didn't know if I appreciated it or not. I leaned towards the latter.

"I'm interested about one particular thing, Miss Emme," he said. "And forgive me for being blunt in asking."

Part by part, I could feel my body brace itself for whatever the man had to say. From my toes to the rigidness in my shoulders, I felt the anxiety creep into the marrow of my bones.

Leaning forward, hazel eyes resolute and focused on my own, Dr. Chilton asked, "How is it that after surviving an encounter with an unstable mass murderer you find yourself biting at the bit to be in the same room with Dolarhyde again, yet you can't will yourself to return to Colorado?"

A pause.

I glanced to a leg of his chair.

Back to him.

No. His eyes are too intense.

His tie.

Yes. Settle there.

Despite how hard it was to even look at Dr. Chilton, the answer to such a question was not difficult to conjure up.

"Because Francis Dolarhyde never hurt me and he promised that he never will."

My response was genuine. It was authentic and I meant what I said. Still, it pained me to see the sadness that faintly touched the eyes of Dr. Chilton.

At the end of the day, say what you will of Dr. Chilton's personality or methods of administration, but to call Dr. Chilton anything less than brave would stir up a deep outrage in me. He is a survivor. He is a fighter and a harborer of a great pain, of a deep infliction that's scars he wears on his body as a constant reminder. I can hide the evidence, but for him, never. True, I know not of how he feels about living through the trauma of being attacked by Francis Dolarhyde, but what I can recognize is the strength it takes to resume his study of psychopathology, as well as the ability to face his attacker head on. There is beauty in that ability. There is admiration in me, and a hope that grew as I watched him manage his composure in that chair at the coffee shop.

To this day, I am thankful for the model of strength that Dr. Chilton is. I'm thankful that because of people like him, I know that I can overcome anything.

I found out later that afternoon that Dr. Chilton finalized the paperwork that declared me psychologically and emotionally fit for continuing my internship. It would resume the following Monday.

Instead of lazing around all weekend, I decided to give myself a project. It was a longshot, but I thought that if I could ask Dom for footage of Dolarhyde's past interviews and sessions with other psychologists who tried working with him, then maybe I could get a more holistic idea of what the man was like outside of my presence. At least, that's the reasoning that I presented to my sister. Dom thought it was good idea though, and for two days straight I was cooped up in my room with my laptop and constant video recordings playing nonstop.

The difference between the man who entered treatment that first week in Buffalo to the man that I've met in St. Louis was bizarre. When the FBI finally caught Dolarhyde, he was barely clinging to life. Near coma. Barely able to breathe. He suffered severe blood loss and major lacerations to the throat and abdomen, as well as many cuts and stab wounds from his neck to his ankles. It was a miracle that he lived. He had a lengthy recovery, and it took several surgeries to stitch him back together. When at last he was declared fit to stand trial and received his sentence from the courts, the next phase of his recovery began.

"Uneasy."

"Temperamental."

"Resistant."

"Unpredictable."

These describers were jotted down in the notes by various psychologists about the famed Tooth Fairy killer.

I saw the footage that Dillon talked about, the one where Mr. Dolarhyde bit a nurse in Atlanta. No words were exchanged between her and the patient. One moment Mr. Dolarhyde was pensive in his cell, silent and unmoving. The next he appeared anxious, holding his head and smacking the side of it with his fist. Mumbling, mumbling something about it being too hot in the room. Although I was leery about why a sedative was the immediate response to his anxiety, watching Mr. Dolarhyde bite down on the nurse's fingers and thrash his head while the lady shrieked in agony made me think otherwise.

Despite all the tapes, the videos of Dolarhyde sleeping, eating, working out, and being generally despondent, not one showed evidence of the Dragon. Not a single scrap of footage. Sure, he was violent, but his behavior was not indicative of any personality disorder, namely an alternate one. Sure, it was referenced countless times by specialists. Its existence was only discovered because of the FBI's telephone recording and whatever journals survived his house fire.

I saw pictures of those, too. Pictures of the journals with blackened edges and smudgy handwriting. There weren't many. What little I could see, they were so depressing that I stopped reading them.

I couldn't find it. Evidence of the Dragon. That's what I was really looking for, and I came up empty-handed. The only thing that could count as evidence would be Mr. Dolarhyde's admittance that it was gone like Dom had said, that it "left him." Those were the words he used.

"It left me," he said during a talk therapy session in Atlanta. "I am not worthy anymore of its glory."

The back of my head met the softness of my pillow as I laid down in defeat. So many questions flooded my mind, like maybe I heard him wrong. Or misunderstood the context of his words. Yeah, he was just having a panic attack. He wasn't coherent anymore.

I instantly rebuked myself.

No.

The doubt came as fast as my questions.

I know what I experienced. Heard. Felt.

His teeth.

The heat of his breath.

His lips as they skirted my skin.

Of his palms as they held my face.

Firm.

Warm.

I had to crane my neck so much, he was so tall.

No.

His voice. It was stronger somehow. Deeper.

Menacing.

Definitely not like the Mr. Dolarhyde that I had gotten to know in the past few months.

No, that man was gentle. Shy. Reserved.

He wouldn't dare touch me. I didn't even think that he wanted to.

Well, until now.

No.

The Dragon was real. I met it. Or is it a "him?"

I don't know.

Who does in this sort of situation?

What time is it?

Two in the morning? Glorious.

I would be seeing Francis Dolarhyde in a few short hours.

Burning, burning, my mind was on fire. Sleep wasn't even an option for me. I gave up on the idea by the fifteenth video I watched.

While lying in bed on a Sunday night, eyes staring blankly at my ceiling fan, I decided to figure out how I wanted things to go with Francis Dolarhyde. There was only so much time left. No more was to be wasted. I wanted to know him more. Not as an observer, but as a person, an actual person.

So with the final thoughts on sleep fading into oblivion, I rose from my bed and grabbed my iPod from the dresser. I wandered downstairs and entered the kitchen with a new plan in mind.

Monday morning's drive was pleasant. I felt oddly at ease as we joined the rest of St. Louis's commuting traffic.

My sister was not.

"You're insane," commented my older sibling. "Absolutely crazy."

"Says the enabler," I breathed.

"Oh, I'm the enabler here?"

"Always. And for the record, my sanity is vouched for. Dr. Chilton says I'm good to go, and one psychiatrist's opinion is all I need. Also, don't lie to me and pretend you didn't like having a warm, cheesy, breakfast casserole waiting for you when you got up this morning. With complimentary muffins, I might add."

"Whatever."

"My friends will love it, and Henry loved it," I remarked.

"Henry loves anything involving hash browns. And that's not what bothers me about this whole situation, Al."

"I know."

"It's that we're sharing breakfast with _him-_ "

"I know."

"And I don't like the rest of your plan. I think you're pushing it. Big time."

"If I die then I die."

"Alexandra Marie!"

"Oh, don't middle name me!" I cried back.

We had arrived at the parked in the lot in front of the hospital. Despite the car being completely shut off, neither of us unfastened our seatbelts.

"Dom," I began calmly. "He had every opportunity to hurt me and he didn't-"

"That time. That time he didn't hurt you. What makes you think that he won't try this time?"

"He promised-"

"Alexandra-"

"He _promised me_. And I believe him. Plus, you don't think he'll hurt me either."

At that statement, her brows rose and Dom leaned away from me.

"I don't?" she questioned sardonically.

"No, you don't. Because if you did, even in the slightest, we would already be in the hospital by now, topic dead, end of discussion."

She didn't say anything and I scrutinized her for it. God knows she had loads to say. The scales in her head were still weighing the situation, I could see it in her eyes.

"Dom," I said. "I think he trusts me."

Her eyes flickered to mine. Hesitant. Protective.

"I think Francis Dolarhyde trusts me to know who he really is," I told her. "I'm close. I can feel it. But he needs to feel like he's a person who matters in my eyes, that I don't place myself above him in any way. This is a big step in that. Trust me. I got this, but I need to go now for it to work."

She continued to stare at me with our father's eyes. Sharp and gorgeous. Like her mind.

"Okay," Dom answered quietly, almost too quiet for her. "I'm going to trust your judgment on this one, Al, but only if you let me place a guard directly outside the door and outside his cell on the other side of the partition-"

"Absolutely. That'll be fine."

"Alright. Alright. You better go then."

The looks I received from the staff at the hospital were all the same. They all wore the "What they hell are you doing?" face. Not super intense, but the furrowed brows and puckered lips of the employees was to be expected during my walk down to patient holding.

Over one shoulder was the thick strap to a large food warmer bag, like the kind people use to transfer hot meals to relatives' homes on Thanksgiving. It weighed a lot and made me walk crooked. On my back was the bag that I always took when I saw Mr. Dolarhyde. Its contents clanked as I carefully made my way towards the elevator.

It was six in the morning. Breakfast would be served to patients in five minutes.

I kept glancing at my watch as I stood in the cold halls of patient holding. Even though I knew that the staff was notified of what I was intending to do, a bothersome need to look over my shoulder persisted to gnaw at my consciousness.

No one was going to be interrupting us. I was alone.

A deep breath in.

A deep breath out.

I reached for the door.

Unlike the previous visits, the temperature in the room was remarkably different. It was cool. Comfortable. It wasn't stuffy or hot.

The door was shut softly behind me. Soundless. Eerily quiet. Walking further into the room, I wondered if maybe I entered the wrong holding room by mistake. I felt the need to step lightly as I approached the bars with my load. It wasn't until I was right beside his cell did I realize why it was so quiet.

Still sleeping, Francis Dolarhyde was curled up on his mattress, eyes shut, and breathing slow. He slept on his side, back to the wall and facing the room. Tranquil. Peaceful. He slept like a child with his hands loosely fisted near his face and knees pulled up towards his broad chest. I lightly set down my things so that I could look at him, really look at the man while he slept. Those tightly wound features on his face were smooth. No stiff jaw. No furrowed brow or vivid, bright eyes to study every move I made. Everything at peace. Long lashes fluttered against his cheeks while he dreamed.

I didn't want him to wake up to me creepily standing over him, so I made a point to wander back to the room's entrance. I opened the door and with a little noise, closed it again. The metal sound was enough to rouse him. From the middle of the room I watched as Francis Dolarhyde's eyes blinked awake, and his tall frame sat upright on his bed, joints cracking. His disheveled hair made me smile. As if sensing my amusement, his eyes quickly found me. They widened.

"What, what are you doing here?" questioned Mr. Dolarhyde hoarsely.

"Good morning," I greeted with a smile. "I'm-"

"You need to leave."

The smile dissipated immediately. He took my shock as an opportunity to say more.

"You need to go," he told me, a layer of seriousness coating his voice. "Now."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to see you."

The man had said them so surely without a hint of mercy. There was a coldness to them, his words. Incarcerated or not, they felt like a slap to the face.

"Um," I mumbled. "I, I hope I didn't offend you or anything. During the last time we met."

Francis Dolarhyde shook his head, worry spreading to his eyes and forehead.

"No, no, you didn't," he answered softly.

The man then stood from his bed and placed himself right behind the bars. He couldn't reach me, but that didn't stop me from taking a small step away from him.

"I don't want you here," he said menacingly. In a hushed voice, one that had a tinge of desperation in it, he whispered, " _Go_."

For a brief moment, I considered doing what he asked. I considered reaching down to my things, sliding their straps over my shoulders and heading out. I considered this all for about three seconds, probably less. It would have been the understandable, logical thing to do. Listen to the mentally ill, serial killer's warning to leave his presence. Do it. It's a smart move. Some might say it was considerate of Dolarhyde to give me the opportunity to get out while I still could. But I didn't see it that way. Not at all.

I was pissed.

Without saying a word, I turned from the man and searched the room. Locating what I was looking for, I stalked to the metal chair that rested in the corner and proceeded to drag it loudly to the camera that hung from the ceiling.

One foot followed the other as I rose to stand on the chair, my face directly in front of the camera's lens.

"My time starts now," I stated to whoever was on the other side.

A loud clank sounded inside the room.

Hearing the sound, I then plucked the wires from the back like I had done time and time before, and hopped off the chair to rejoin Mr. Dolarhyde.

"You owe me an apology," I said to him. "You _really_ do."

I didn't hide the agitation in my voice. It was like a growl from an animal. I know how to be sharp when I need to be, but no matter how evident my mood was, based on the look on Mr. Dolarhyde's face I might as well had spoken Mandarin Chinese. He simply blinked at my statement.

When I crossed my arms over my chest, the man was spurred to speak.

"An apology?" he echoed.

"Yes."

A pause.

"For what-"

"For what? For _what_? Really? Um, let's start with the list as to why you should appreciate my existence in this room in the first place. Like, how one, it's a fucking miracle that I'm even here, especially after our little exchange in the dark a few days ago. Two, because I haven't told anyone about…yeah. And three, because I _slaved_ this morning."

Silence.

I waited. I would wait all damn day if I had to. Mr. Dolarhyde would be getting no outs this time, and he quickly realized it.

"S-slaved-"

"Yeah, slaved! For you!" I cried.

The patient frowned, but I kept on going.

"You would know what I meant by that if you hadn't told me to leave like you did, and I haven't even gotten to the fourth reason yet, because you told me to "go." So rude. I just got here, and you didn't even say hi. After all that I've done so far _for you_ , I'm wanting an apology."

My pulse beat rapidly in my ear like a humming bird. I stood in the typical pissed-off-woman pose, hip jutted out, chin down, and arms crossed. Facing me was an absolutely dumbstruck man, his mouth slack and eyes fleeting to me, to the bags on the ground, to the camera, and me again.

"Miss-ss Emme-"

"Alexandra," I corrected.

"Alex-xandra," Mr. Dolarhyde stuttered, but that's all he got out.

Uncertainty prevailed.

It typically does with him, and I could only take about ten seconds of silence before I chose to push things along.

Kneeling down to the bags on the floor, I began unloading their contents. Two plates, two cloth napkins, and two sets of cutlery were laid on a large, red quilt. From the backpack I also pulled out two water bottles and several packets of Capris Sun.

"What are you doing?"

"Building a rocket ship."

I didn't even look up when I sniped back, and when I finally did steal a glance I found some joy in seeing the familiar tightknit brow in between those cerulean eyes.

The last of the items were in the food warmer bag. With a swell of pride, I unzipped it and took out a large glass pan of breakfast casserole. The smell of salty bacon, crisp hash browns, mixed with egg and a generous portion of cheddar cheese flooded the space around us with no mercy on our delicate senses. My mouth watered from the smell alone, and the small container of fresh blueberry muffins I set beside the pan didn't help sedate my impatient hunger. It wasn't until those two items were placed in the center of the quilt completing the "table", did I fully look at the man behind the bars.

"You can do whatever you want, but I'm not leaving," I announced.

Carefully with eyes on his own, I moved towards Francis Dolarhyde. His frame noticeably stiffened.

"I put in too much effort and I'd hate for all that work to go to waste," I continued.

The final act. The fourth reason. The last crusade in my pageantry of effort. I slowly wrapped my fingers around the bars he stood behind. They were cold to the touch and textured by time. I pulled. The bars whined as they slowly swung open like they had the day of the storm, the barricade between him and me removed.

I didn't allow for a moment of waiting. Barely breathing, I turned my back on Mr. Dolarhyde and took my place on the quilt. It wasn't until I started opening one of the juice packets did he speak to me.

"I can kill you."

Raspy. There was grief in his words.

"So can peanuts."

I kept my focus on getting the thin straw into the packet. It bent and I cursed in my mind.

"I am very aware that you can kill me," I added. "You made a show of it last time, but in the end I know that you won't do it, Francis."

"You don't. You keep saying that you do, but you have no idea of what I am capable of doing to a girl like you."

"Francis-"

"I can _tear you apart_."

His voice was shaking.

"I know-"

"You don't! You have absolutely no idea what's inside me, what _he_ wants to do to your skin…to your body…"

My eyes flickered to his face, to the wounded expression that had the beginnings of fresh tears glimmering on his eye lashes.

"Then do it," I said to him.

His chest heaved. A sob. He swallowed.

"Kill me," I said. "Do it. If you want to kill me so badly, Francis, then pick up that knife right there, yes, right there by the plate, and kill me. Do your worst."

My words were met with a deadly quiet. Silent incredulity. I continued.

"Bite me. Do it. Rip me open and enjoy yourself. Enjoy my death. You've done it before, and I know some part of you wants to do it again. So, go on. Do your worst and kill me."

"But if not, then please come sit down and have breakfast," I said gently. "I've seen the shit they feed you so I thought that this would be nice. A good change. Come on. If you're wanting to kill me then go for it. Otherwise, give it a rest because I'd love for you to join me and try this casserole thing that I made. I found it on Pinterest and it took forever to bake. Really, I just want to know what you think."

Staring at him, it took all the power in me not to show how I felt, to remain as neutral as ever at the sight of such deep confliction and helplessness in a single person. His pain was like the sun, scorching those around him with a sort of hurting radiance.

A burn.

A ripe, blistering burn.

A lone tear trailed down one cheek and settled in his hair lip scar. I had no idea what was going on in that mind of his, but whatever was brewing and brewing and brewing eventually settled itself at the bottom of who he is.

With a few slow steps, Francis walked through the opening to his cell and stopped at the quilt. His blue eyes surveyed the offerings before he slowly took his place across from me.

Euphoria. Yes, that's the right word for the situation, for how I felt. I was euphoric because I was sitting across from Francis Dolarhyde, _the_ Francis Dolarhyde. I was so caught up in what was happening that I served him a portion of the casserole without asking how much he wanted. Not that it mattered. Of course, he said nothing.

The silence continued for a while. I tried my best not to watch him eat, but it was nearly impossible.

Francis became more relaxed with each passing minute. Tears dried. Brow smoothed. I was inwardly pleased at how his first timid bite of his breakfast turned into six servings. On his own, Francis ate three-quarters of the pan, along with two muffins and a few packs of juice.

"The deal was…" I began during the middle of our meal.

His eyes, the murkiness of tears long gone, settled on my face in widened expectation as he drank from a water bottle.

"…That you could freely eat with me like this so long as there was extra security, and if you were in your cell by the end of our time today."

"Mhm."

"Glad you decided to come out, Francis," I told him with a wink. "Makes me happy."

Eyes downcast. A light shade of pink coloring his cheeks. I kept my smile in check.

"I don't know why you're here," he said quietly. "It amazes me that you keep coming back."

"Are we back at that subject again?"

When he saw that I was only teasing him, the hostility in his eyes weakened and the corner of his mouth twitched into a short-lived smile.

"I suppose," he answered.

My head nodded at his response and with curiosity I asked, "Does that bother you? Having to wonder at my intentions so much?"

A light vivified his eyes.

"Are we back at that question again, Alexandra?" countered Francis. I noticed that he didn't struggle over my name that time. "Wondering again if I find you bothersome?"

I smiled.

"Who's analyzing whom, Mr. Dolarhyde?"

"Francis," he amended. "And I believe that just as conversation is give and take, that I'm allotted some freedom to ask you a few questions of my own."

"That you are. I guess we'll always go back and forth on those subjects, then. Maybe we'll be stuck on them forever."

"I hope not."

My smile faded. I didn't know what to say to that.

Francis must've sensed my reluctance for he looked away and picked at a muffin wrapper. Before he spoke again, I saw his eyes wander over to where the camera hung dead from the ceiling.

"You and I both know that this is not only unorthodox, but very unwise," he stated. "To be here in this room. With me. After what happened in the dark. With _him._ "

A shudder. It climbed on his shoulders.

"In the end," he said. "I hope that you understand that I never, ever desired to injure you in any way. I don't wish that for you, Alex-xandra."

"I believe you."

"You've been kind to me. S-Sweet. I like you. But, it would be a great disservice to such kindness for you to remain in the presence of someone that may desire to harm you greatly."

I could have applauded. He spoke so well that time, and the relief of having said what he wanted danced in his eyes.

"I appreciate your candor," I replied. "Really, I do. But the thing is, I don't believe that you will follow through with those desires you have, Francis-"

"Why?"

I blinked at his sudden urgency.

"How are you s-so c-certain?" he questioned. "How could you poss-…How could you know?"

The desperation in his voice was heartbreaking. He really was asking me because he honestly couldn't think of a reason. He wanted to know more than I cared to share. I realized that I needed to be more intentional with my words regarding the subject than I previously had been.

"The Dragon," I said. "As you know, spoke to me that day. Do you remember what he said?"

He wasn't going to answer me. That I knew for sure.

"He said, Francis, that he likes me."

The words settled in. I could see it, his mind at work and his lips silently sounding out his thoughts to himself.

"And you didn't tell anyone about the Dragon?" he near whispered.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it, er, _he_ said that I shouldn't. The Dragon doesn't want anyone to know. Until I understand more, I'll do what he says, but that means there needs to be some trust formed. On all sides. Is that fair?"

"Mhm."

"So, are you still breaking up with me?" I mused.

Part of me feared that my joke wouldn't translate, but the man did smile a little as he glanced down to his hands.

"If, if you mean to ask if I still want you to leave, the answer is always no," said Francis. "I would very much appreciate it if you stayed."

"Good. I wasn't going to leave so easily anyway."

"That I believe. How old are you?" he then asked. "You're young."

"And you're old," I replied. "You have lines by your eyes. I'm at least half your age."

"How old?"

"I'm twenty-three."

He made a funny face and I laughed. Barely audible, I heard the man chuckle.

Letting the conversation rest for a bit, I began to clear the quilt of our dishes and leftovers. Francis took another muffin from the pile while I thought of something else to discuss. While watching him bite into it, a new smile formed on my lips. Seeing it, he frowned.

"You have something right here," I said while gesturing to my face. "Ha, on your mouth here. Above your lip."

Even after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Francis failed to get the small crumb that rested right next to that lined scar below his nose.

Without thinking, I reached across the quilt.

His hand instantly snatched my wrist. The pain, the suddenness of it all startled me, and in a kneejerk reaction, my other hand left my side to retaliate. Francis stopped it before I made contact, securing both wrists in his strong hands. I huffed in anger, my eyes boring holes into his head.

Francis, instead, was more surprised than anything else.

"You didn't scream," he said in a breath.

"Of course not. Let go of me," I demanded.

"Why aren't you s-screaming?"

I wrestled in his grip, but accomplished nothing.

"Because if I did then you'd have a bullet in your head," I near hissed. "You're hurting me. Let go."

Seeing my distress, his hands automatically released their hold. I glowered at him while my fingers rubbed the pain out of my wrists in small circles.

"What the hell is your problem? I was just reaching to get something off your face. Jesus," I grumbled.

"I'm s-sorry-"

"Yeah? Are you really?"

"I am-"

"Then hold still."

He obeyed, but not without analyzing me for a second or two. A bit more cautious, I slowly stretched my hand towards the man's face. I felt as if I was reaching out towards an animal, towards a creature who could snap at me at any second. He blinked more and more the closer I got.

"Breathe, man" I reminded him with a small smile. "Chill out."

At last, the pad of my thumb scraped the crumb away. It fell on his shirt.

"There," I muttered. "Was that so terrible?"

A small exhale left me as the sensation of victory flooded in, but as I shifted away Francis reached up again and grabbed my hand. The movement made me cringe, but he held on. It didn't hurt that time. No. Gently. Kindly, he held me there.

"Please."

His eyes. His mouth. His jaw. His eyes again, I studied his face. I looked for a giveaway. I looked for something sinister. For something foul. Ill-intent. I found nothing of the sort.

Only fear.

"Please," he pleaded again in a voice that sounded so, so small.

I watched without blinking. I dared not to. Gently, kindly, Francis moved my hand to his face. He had my hand cup his cheek, the warmth of his skin electric to the touch. Beneath my palm I could feel the faint stubble of his cheek and the muscles flexing underneath as he clenched his teeth.

Everything faded away. It fell back into nothingness. I thought not of time or of propriety. I thought not of social class or where we stood at the hands of the law. All that mattered in that room at that precise moment was that I was touching Francis Dolarhyde. Like gravity, those eyes of his, held my attention without mercy. I couldn't turn away even if I wanted to.

By what I can best describe as pure instinct, my left hand rose to copy the right. In my hands. He was there. I held him, and he allowed his eyes to flutter shut. On my knees in front of the most dangerous, complex person I have ever met. Me. Him. His breathing was slow, his exhales calm from their trembling. I could feel him relaxing into my palms, feel him ease into another state of mind altogether.

Feeling brave, I gently moved my thumb to graze the raised flesh of his hair lip scar.

His eyes opened.

"No," he whispered.

A warning.

I let go.

"Okay," was all I was able to say.

He stared at me. Those ocean eyes raced across my face like my eyes had done to him. Realization slowly dawned on both of us, I think, the realization of how close we were, how I could feel the heat from his breath on my skin. His eyes fell on my mouth. He swallowed.

A low buzzing sounded to my left. We both looked at my backpack where the sound originated from, but I didn't have to guess as to what was causing the noise.

"Time's up," I announced.

As I left my spot on the floor, I saw disappointment fill his eyes with its saddened mirth. I grinned on my way to the camera.

"Let me clarify," I said over my shoulder. "The only time that is up is the time without the camera. I have to turn it on now."

A sigh.

"Okay."

Once the wires were returned to their slots, I rejoined Mr. Dolarhyde on the quilt.

"There's a newspaper in that front pouch," I told him. "Let's see what's going on in the world today."

That idea seemed to interest him as Francis reached for my bag and unclasped the front pocket of my backpack. As he pulled out the folded newspaper, another object followed and fell on to the quilt.

It was the envelope that Dom had given me many days ago. Wrinkled, small, and forgotten, I frowned at seeing it. At the same time, my eyes glanced up to see that the camera's red light was failing to glow.

"I forgot I had that thing," I said as I stood again.

"There's no name."

"Yeah, it must be a friend from home. The town written there is by Denver. Like, a twenty minute drive from my parent's house."

I had grabbed the chair again. I could feel his eyes on my back.

"Do you mind opening it for me?" I called as I checked on the camera.

I twisted a wire. Nothing.

"You want me to open your mail?"

I unplugged both wires. Put them back in. There. The red light was on.

"Yeah, I don't care," I said while stepping down. "Go ahead. Open it."

The sound of paper tearing. He was sliding a piece from the envelope. Lined notebook paper.

"It's handwritten," said Francis. "Are you sure you want me to read it?"

"Go ahead."

I was twisting the plastic cap off of one of the water bottles when he began reading the letter to me. I thought that it would be a great speech exercise for him, to sound out the words in front of an audience that he had some semblance of trust in.

But when he started, I stopped drinking. All thoughts of what I was doing in that room vanished like smoke.

"S-Sweet baby," started Francis. "I miss-ss our little talks-s. It's been so long-"

Francis stopped. I don't know what his face looked like when he stopped. I wasn't looking at him anymore.

"Alex-xandra?"

I felt separated from my body. Like I was floating above the room, but not in a heavenly way, oh no. I felt like I was about to plummet to earth.

"Can I see it?" I said to Francis.

With outstretched fingers, I took the thin piece of paper from him. In my peripheral vision, I saw that Francis was worried.

"What's wrong?" he questioned as I read over the words.

 _Sweet baby…_

I could have thrown up.

"I, I think I should go."

Somber. Dead. I didn't even recognize my own voice.

I was on my feet before I knew where I was going.

The quilt was still on the floor. Even though Francis had risen to stand before me, I was on my knees again to quickly stuff the quilt back into my backpack.

Like lead, his stare laid heavy on me.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dolarhyde, but I have to go," I said to him as I slung both bags over one shoulder.

"Alex-"

"I'm sorry, but I have to go."

With my bags full and heart racing, I rose to leave. To flee. Francis Dolarhyde stood helpless before me, eyes full of fear. When I tried to step around him, the man refused to let me pass. Tears smarted at my eyes.

"Please move!"

"What's wrong?"

I couldn't. I couldn't. They ran like rivers, salty and streaming down my cheeks. My back found the harsh brick wall and slumped against it, my bags sliding from my shoulders as my hands rose to shield my face from the room. I sobbed and sobbed. As feelings of dread and helplessness boiled up from the springs of my buried fears, all I could do was cry.

A touch. My shoulders. Hands on my shoulders.

I screamed. All my strength, all my might went into a forceful shove.

The mass, it barely moved an inch. It did not move away.

A moment later, I heard the sound of the door's lock unsheathing. The door yawned open, its hinges singing. Then, footsteps. Then, my sister's voice.

"Francis, back away from her, please."

No words. Not even silence. Just my gasping breaths filled the room.

"I know you didn't do anything to upset her, Francis," said my sister's clinical voice. "This has nothing to do with you. Return to your cell-"

"Who wrote that letter?" he questioned. "Was it you? What have you done-"

"Mr. Dolarhyde, return to your cell-"

"Answer me! What have you done here-"

"Officer, please subdue the patient."

That proximal feeling one has when beside another, it shifted. My eyes were still covered by my trembling hands, so I never saw that he was standing so close to me. But I felt it. I could sense the heat rolling off of his body.

"Step away from the girl," commanded a new voice. Male. Authoritative. Officer?

"No."

Dark. Low. Deadly.

This voice was not friendly.

I knew this voice.

"Step away from the girl," warned the first. "This is your final warning."

"Warn me?" said Francis Dolarhyde. "You dare to warn _me_?"

Oh no.

"If you make any moves towards this woman," said Francis Dolarhyde in a deep, growling tone. "I will rip out your vocal cords and snap your spine in half."

Oh no.

Should I look?

Should I dare to raise my eyes?

I asked myself, I asked and did. I did dare. I did dare to look up from my hands and observe something other. Something greater than Francis Dolarhyde, for though I saw the man I dined with, smiled with, and talked to, the being in front of me, with his cold stare and rigid stance was not Francis Dolarhyde. No.

The Great Red Dragon.

"I'm fine."

The two words in their simplicity, came out like a sieve.

"I'm fine," I said again, louder and causing everyone in the room to look my way.

Everyone but Francis.

I saw the room and how full it had become. There were three officers to my left by my sister, and two officers and an orderly by the entrance to Dolarhyde's cell. The orderly had a syringe ready, no doubt full of a cocktail of sedatives. The officers had guns.

Not exactly sure as to what to do from there, I glanced up at Francis and steadily moved away. His eyes weren't on me though.

The rested heavily on Dom.

When I was close enough, my sister took me under her arm and led me out of the room. She said not a word and I stared only at the floor as we moved. The only time she did speak was when we were in the foyer. I recognized the tile.

"She's all yours," said my sister's voice, but it wasn't to me.

His scent. The richness of his expensive cologne, a fragrance that I knew well by then. Part of me was soothed by its familiarity.

"My God, what have you done?"

Dr. Chilton. His speech had the early notes of a rising anger.

There was no response to his question. Only the clacks of my sister's heels as she left us.

Dr. Chilton took me away from there. He repeated the question again and again.

"My God, what have you done?"

* * *

 **This is by far the longest chapter I have ever written. Thank you all for the love you have given to _Fervor_. I really do appreciate all the positive reviews that I have received. Writing on Francis Dolarhyde has been fun and thought-provoking, especially since such a character is as complex as he is tragic. We're about halfway through. Happy reading, TCR**


	7. Chapter 7

Ever since my breakdown in the holding room, I have thought about that man constantly. When I close my eyes, I see him. I see the way the lines by his eyes crinkle when he allows himself to laugh. I see the furrowed brow and the scowl. I see his patience with me wearing thin at times, yet he never complains, never puts me down. I see how he glowered at my sister, and the thunder of his voice when he threatened the guards.

He has invaded almost every facet of my life: My internship, my conversations with friends, my relationship with my sister, my therapy sessions with Dr. Chilton, and now as I laid quietly in my bed, the man has successfully entered my dreams while I sleep.

Not in a threatening way. He's just there, pleasantly existing.

It wasn't helping.

I wanted to see him. In the flesh.

Only a day had passed, but I already was pining to talk to Francis again. I wanted to explain myself, to explain my bizarre behavior. Embarrassment berated my nerves about the whole thing. People witnessed my tears, my scream, my absolute meltdown. It was even recorded, the whole thing on camera! God knows it's been analyzed, but in all honesty, I just felt the need to talk to Francis about it. I don't know. Irrational as it was, I didn't like leaving him on such an off note after having such a good time that morning. It felt wrong. I felt the urgency to justify myself. I don't know. It felt wrong.

After waking up from a dream, one with Dolarhyde in it, I reached for my cell phone that sat on my bedside dresser, and dialed Dr. Chilton's number. I didn't bother checking the time. It was morning, and that was good enough for me.

"Miss Emme," the psychiatrist greeted after a few rings. "How are you doing today?"

"Fine, listen, I need to see Francis."

A pause. Painfully quiet.

"I don't think that's a wise idea," he answered.

I closed my eyes and stifled a sigh.

"I know it sounds crazy," I said. "But I just want to set something straight with him. That's all."

"Set what straight?"

"Just, you know."

"I'm afraid I don't."

"I want to explain a little about why I freaked out."

"Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'? It was humiliating."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"So, why do you wish to explain yourself to Francis Dolarhyde?" he asked. "And why so urgently?"

"Dr. Chilton, I really don't-"

My words caught in my throat, and the doctor on the other end of the line made no effort to fill the silence. A second or two later after my emotion steadied in my chest, I tried again.

"Dr. Chilton, I don't want to explain everything. Can I just go back in? Please?"

The breathy sound of his exhale hit the receiver of his phone and blew into my ear. I closed my eyes for the response I knew I wouldn't like.

"Alexandra, this isn't healthy," said Dr. Chilton with a steady gentleness. "I'm concerned for your well-being more than I was before, and I'm afraid that exposing you to Francis Dolarhyde in the state that you are currently in would not bode well for you, nor for Dolarhyde at this point in time. As your psychiatrist, I cannot encourage such a decision. I'm sorry."

My back rested against the headboard and my eyes were trained on the face of the opposite wall. No words, no argument formulated in my brain to counter what Dr. Chilton said to me, mostly because I knew that he was right.

Just as I was about to thank him for his time and hang up, the man on the other end of the line began talking again.

"Also," he started quietly. "You wouldn't be able to come in tomorrow and see Francis Dolarhyde."

"How come?"

"He's undergoing a psyche evaluation instead of his usual therapy session."

"Why?"

"To see how he's progressing. If he is. It'll be like the session that I had a few months ago that you observed with the folder, remember?"

"I do."

"Yes, well, it'll be as that appointment was. Exactly like that one. Even in the same room."

I frowned at first, but then realization crept into the folds of my mind like an insect.

"Yeah?" I said.

"Yes. There will be guards, obviously. Not many. Just one in the hall outside of the observation room. Maybe one in the room with your sister and I. The one in the hall, he will be armed, but not expecting anything out of the ordinary. But don't come, Alexandra."

"Okay," I said. "I won't."

"I mean it. Don't come to the hospital. Don't go downstairs to the evaluation hall. Promise me that you will stay at your sister's home and forget about it."

"I promise."

"Have a good day."

"You, too, Dr. Chilton."

He hung up first. I stared at the screen for a minute before tossing the device to the side so that I could get dressed for the day.

My friends left for home to resume classes and jobs. I said my goodbyes, gave my hugs, but in all honesty, their parting wasn't my sole focus that day.

Dom arrived home around dinner time, and at the table I dared to ask what I wanted to.

"Can I finish my internship tomorrow?" I said before she could take another bite of stir-fry.

My sister thoughtfully glanced to the side before saying, "You can if you want. I have a lot of paperwork that needs sorting."

Her eyes returned to what was on her plate.

"I mean," I started. "I mean talking to patients."

"Sure," she said lightly. "Miss Reynolds has been asking about you. Maybe you could pay her a visit. It's been a while. How about after she takes her noon medication?"

Her husband, Henry, attempted to start a conversation about the holidays, but I interrupted.

"I mean to see Francis Dolarhyde."

Utensils clanked and my sister shot a cross expression from her side of the table.

"He's sick," said Dom. "He's not allowed to see anyone right now."

"Really?" I feigned. "With what?"

"A nasty stomach virus. He couldn't even get out of bed today without assistance. Poor man."

A new tension buzzed in the air as my sister resumed her husband's topic change and I balanced the lie she created on the scales in my head.

"Okay," I sighed. "It was just a thought."

"Mm, yeah, but I think you and I both know that Dr. Chilton doesn't want you to come in for a while. You need to rest more."

"I feel fine."

"I know, but a little rest wouldn't hurt."

Beneath the surface of the dinner table, my fist clenched in my lap. She was doing it. That thing that I've hated since we were children, that thing that I think all younger siblings loathe of the older. She was gloating. She was smug. She was wordlessly puffing her chest, unbeknownst to her husband who sat innocently beside her with love in his eyes. But I saw. I saw how her lips pulled into a small smile while failing to warm the rest of her face.

That was that. My mind settled because of that self-satisfaction of hers and the lie she told right to my face.

"You're right," I said with a smile. "I don't need to go."

We each went to bed without saying good night.

The next morning I lied in bed fully dressed and waiting for my sister to go to work. Once, only once did she peek in on me. Sound asleep I laid, eyes closed and breathing calm as the telling creak of my bedroom door sounded like an alarm. Quietly, I lied waiting for her to leave my bedroom for the hospital. Her steps padded about the house, along with Henry's, and at last when I was satisfied with the silence that followed after the garage door closed, I rose and left the house. I left for the St. Louis State Hospital for the Mentally Ill.

Timing was everything. Too early, I would be seen. Too late, I was running about like an idiot, accomplishing nothing. Multiple times, I ran my plan over and over and over in my mind. Between the commute to the hospital and parking a block away, then jogging to the building itself I had mere minutes to spare. Those precious minutes, were spent entering the hospital from the community service wing, then finding the nearest medical closet. I typed in the security code, the one that I was given so that I could grab supplies for my sister, and took what I needed. The final task, the hardest, waited in the evaluation hall down below.

The guards on duty regarded me with little interest. I was no new face. My internship gained me the trust and privilege to walk past the guards without a second glance, to go down the many flights of stairs, and to ride the elevator to my desired destination. My heart was racing the entire trip. My fingers were trembling as I prepared the items I took from the medical closet.

The elevator stopped at the correct floor, and the doors hissed open.

As I slowly stepped out of the lift and into the evaluation hall, I took one deep breath in and a long breath out. To my left, I saw him, the guard that Dr. Chilton said would be placed during the evaluation. He was a man of average height, brawny and not a great opponent should things run south for me. He was yawning and rubbing his face with the palms of his hands.

Good, I thought. He's already tired.

My tongue wet my lips as I carefully moved away from the elevator and towards the observation room. I heard nothing that signified a session, but I was already so close. I couldn't assume anything by that point.

"Good morning," I said shakily as the guard glanced at me with chocolate, brown eyes.

I stopped right in front of him with hands in my front coat pockets. Whether I was successful in coming off nonchalant, I highly doubted it.

"Do you have clearance?" he asked.

"What?"

"I said, do you have clearance to be in this wing?"

Along with my ID tag, I showed the guard the sincerest of smiles. It was when those curious eyes of his left my face to examine my tag did my smile fall from my lips.

"I'm sorry," I said.

Quickly, I removed my hand from my other pocket to reveal a loaded syringe. Before he could move his hand to his sidearm, the needle was jabbed fiercely into the left side of his neck. I made an effort to cover his gaping mouth with my other hand as the medication was dispersed into his system, as his rigid body collapsed on to the cold tile floor.

I didn't have time to listen. I didn't have time to wait and see if anyone had heard what happened. I took a chance and dragged the officer two feet towards the door to the observation room. I tried the knob. It twisted, thank God, and I entered praying that it was empty.

Please be empty. Please, please, please.

The door widened its mouth and revealed that yes, thank God, it was completely void of any observers. A lot of strength was required of me, but I was able to fully drag the limp body of the guard into the observation room, and quietly shut and lock the door behind us.

A layer of sweat had gathered on my brow by that point and my breathing was heavier, but even then after getting to where I wanted to be, I couldn't rest. I couldn't fully take a break because on the other side of the glass, in the next room was Francis Dolarhyde.

He looked well, even with the chains fastened to his wrists and ankles. Rested. Hair smoothed. No visible bruising for once. Eyes bright, yet narrowed at the others who shared a table with him.

My sister and Dr. Chilton sat across from their patient, each wearing varying degrees of neutrality.

"How do I know?" said Francis.

I shivered at the low purr of his voice.

"We can have the guard check if you wish," said Dom. "Turn the light on. But I'm telling you, there's no one on the other side of the glass today. Not even my sister."

"Where is s-she?"

"Coincidently, she's sick. She has some sort of stomach bug. Lucky you."

"Lucky me," he resounded darkly.

"Why did you call up this meeting, Mr. Dolarhyde?" said Dom.

Dolarhyde's head tilted at her question, reptile-like and predatorily.

I didn't like it.

"For answers. I need to know about her. Did you bring what I reques-told you to?"

"I did. Ask away," replied Dom with a small wave of the hand.

Before Francis could ask anything, however, Dr. Chilton gave Dom a disapproving look and spoke up.

"I'm sorry, but this is absolutely absurd," he voiced.

"Dr. Chilton-"

"No, Dr. Ashe," objected the other psychiatrist. "I understand the gravity of the work that you're trying to conduct here at this facility, but I highly doubt with every fiber of my professional being that you have any perception of the consequences of your actions so far and of future travesties you're willing to commit."

"This man," he continued with an accusatory finger pointed at Dolarhyde. "This man, this _monster_ is by no means subject to any constraints that you or this hospital has tried to put in place. He's played his part, his role as the sedate psychiatric patient, but I know better. I know his type. Think what you will about "good behavior" so far, but don't believe for a moment that it's because he has changed in any way. No, his behavior is strictly advantageous. He knows that should he act poorly here, then he would definitely be transferred to another hospital, and away from the bonds that he has established, no thanks to you, Dr. Ashe. Francis Dolarhyde is still the disgusting, manipulative, evil individual who slaughtered those families, those children, who violated the corpses of dead mothers, and who knows how to expertly work any professional interested in that barbed mind of his."

Turning fully to my sister, Chilton said in an almost pleading voice, "You have exposed such a vile person to your sister, Dominque. To your vulnerable, impressionable younger sister. You have done Alexandra a severe disservice to her mental health, and I'm afraid that it is too late for her now. She is only going to progress. I cannot be a part of this play. I've already seen how it ends. Consider this my official resignation from your study."

I watched with blinking eyes as Dr. Chilton rose from his place at the table and approached the door. Dom silently stared at the table as he left. Francis Dolarhyde allowed a smirk to touch his lips before they parted.

"Dr. Chilton," he called.

Steps stilled. Dr. Chilton froze in place at the sound of his name, his back to Dolarhyde. He did not turn around.

"May I ask what hotel you are staying in?"

Mr. Dolarhyde's question was met with silence, but to my surprise Dr. Chilton did eventually answer him.

"A hotel a few blocks from here."

"Five star."

"Of course."

"East or west?"

"East, and do you want to know why I'm telling you, Francis? It's because you are never leaving this hospital, or the next one, or the next. You will die in custody. You are never going to be a free man, and I'm not afraid of you."

"Dr. Chilton, you said to me the last time we were in this very room together that we could talk to one another. Man to man."

"I did. I said that."

"Funny," said Francis Dolarhyde. "I suppose I didn't convince you well enough the first time we discussed such manners of speaking and how you should properly address me. Did I not rock you right? Perhaps during another visit, we can go over the phrase "man to man" again. We both know I know how to hold your attention, Dr. Chilton. We both know."

The shaky sensation that reverberated down the spine of Dr. Frederick Chilton tickled every vertebrae along my own back bone. The psychiatrist left the room and shut the door softly behind him.

After a few seconds passed, Dom made an effort to regain control of the conversation.

"Back to what we were discussing before, Francis, ask away. What would you like to know about Alexandra?"

A great offense stung in my chest and heated my collar.

Dolarhyde's eyes darted to her face, his brow furrowing and a scowl set firmly on his mouth.

"What are you hoping to gain by satiating me, Dr. Ashe? More transcriptions for your study?"

"Of course," she replied smoothly. "The more the merrier, Francis. I have plenty of personal questions I'm wanting to ask you, but I know that you won't be willing to answer until you gain what you want first."

The corner of his mouth, the side where his scar was, twitched subtly before Francis decided to carry on the conversation. I swear he almost rolled his eyes at her.

"Who frightens her?" he asked quietly. "Who frightens Alexandra?"

Clearly not expecting such a question, my sister's brows rose high above her eyes.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You know what I mean. That letter scared her in a way that I've never seen since we first met, and if you lie to me, Dr. Ashe, I will be aware of it."

In a hushed tone, Francis added, "I can catch you."

They stared into one another's eyes until my sister's faltered first.

"Very well then," she said. "Look at this."

I didn't notice them when I first sat down, but on the other side of Dom's chair was a stack of manila folders. She placed the stack on the table and began rifling through them. With a small "Aha!" she pulled out what she sought. It was opened and slid across the table for Mr. Dolarhyde to read.

"In 2012," began Dom. "My sister started dating a man named Clayton Ashburn. They met in a statistics class at college. He majored in electronic engineering, while she stuck to psychology, as you can probably imagine."

From where I sat, I could see the contents of the folder that was spread out for Francis Dolarhyde. There was a small photograph clipped to the corner of the top page, one I recognized from my old room at my parents' house.

Clayton's face, all tanned and golden, bangs of his chestnut hair grazing his brow. He was smiling.

On the other side of the glass, I was not.

"In January of this year, Alexandra began worriedly phoning my mom about her relationship with Clayton. According to Alexandra, he was growing more controlling and less respectful of her need for space. In April, she mentioned breaking up with Clayton to our mom for the first time. Apparently, he successfully hacked into her email and confronted her about some of her personal messages. In early August, she made up her mind to go through with her decision to end the relationship. By then, she learned that Clayton was tracking her car. By mid-August, she went missing."

Dolarhyde's eyes lifted after hearing the last bit of information. The disdain in them was replaced by a strand of confusion along with another emotion I couldn't pinpoint.

"We realized that she was missing when she failed to answer her cell phone during a camping trip. The trip was scheduled by Clayton to celebrate their three year anniversary, and they were meant to spend five days together near the Arapaho National Forest."

"Clayton's parents were out of town that week," continued Dom. "We knew this because my father called Mr. Ashburn about contacting his son. According to Clayton's father, they had been talking to their son all week. They didn't know about the camping trip because Clayton was supposed to be house-sitting while his parents were away."

As I listened to the story unfold on the other side of the glass, my chest tightened and I could feel my cheeks beginning to heat up. Even though I knew it, even though I've heard what happened before, listening to it being told so matter-of-factly by Dom and to a man like Mr. Dolarhyde felt very invasive. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, just as Francis did in his. Unlike me, however, he was more fortunate. He had a red string to toy with beneath the table.

"On August 21st, 2015, my father drove to Berkley, Colorado, to confront Clayton about the whereabouts of my sister. After arguing with Clayton and failing to locate her in the Ashburn home, my father broke into their backyard to search the family's storm shelter."

Her voice caught.

"He found her there," she said thickly.

My fingers ran through the thick tresses of my hair as I tried to soothe myself, as I tried to force the bile back down my throat, as I tried to stifle the rising sobs from shaking my tight shoulders. All at once I remembered the coldness of the cellar, of the scent of Clayton's grandfather's leather works hanging on the far wall, of the tall, ominous mirror that stood in the middle of the room because they didn't know what else to do with it but to keep it in storage down there. I can recall the dust. I can remember the rat traps. I remember checking the cellar's hatch, locked, and rattling the door and screaming for help. I don't remember getting there. I don't remember descending the steps. I do remember Clayton's face when he answered the front door of his house to greet me, of the rage in his eyes when I said that I was not to go with him on the trip, and that maybe we should consider taking a break from our relationship.

I bit the sleeve of my coat so that the sound of my sobs were muffled, not that anyone on the other side of the glass could hear me. I just didn't want anyone to hear me, even if the sound was little.

"What happened next?" questioned Francis as he slid the folder away.

"Nothing. Nothing happened. My parents called the police on him, but there was no justice. He was jailed, bailed out because his family's wealthy, and hired a lawyer that could smoke whoever my family could try and hire. We never made it to court, and ended up settling. Restraining order, and a verbal agreement that he would not make contact with Alexandra, but even that wasn't a guarantee. Clayton's an ethical hacker now for the government."

"That's why she's in Missouri."

"Yep. She fled here. She couldn't stand living anywhere near him after that. Now you know. That snobby piece of rich shit is what frightens Alexandra. The only man alive who could put the fear of God in her. Anymore questions?"

I looked up. Anger ripened at my core at the easiness of her flippancy.

"What questions do you have for me?" he suggested.

Dom quirked an eyebrow.

"Are you willing to answer should I ask?"

"Mhm."

"Very well then, does my sister annoy you in any way?"

The man frowned, but answered anyway.

"No."

"Really? She doesn't do anything that bothers you?"

Francis thought some more.

"She says "I know" a lot," he told my sister. "Perhaps too much. And she's stubborn, and possibly apathetic of her personal safety. Otherwise, no. I have never found her bothersome in any form or fashion."

"Huh, alright. May I ask another?"

"Yes."

"Do you desire my sister sexually, Mr. Dolarhyde?"

His lips pursed immediately at her question. I wanted to scream.

From one of the folders, my sister pulled out a small stack of paper along with an ink pen. She began jotting down something on the top page, her eyes flitting between her writing and Mr. Dolarhyde's pale expression.

"Do you, Mr. Dolarhyde, admittedly hold some form of feelings of attraction towards Alexandra?"

"I-I'm attracted to her, yes."

"Good, in what way?"

"I find her intelligent, thoughtful, and humorous-s."

"She can make you laugh?"

"Mhm."

"Okay, back to the original question: Do you desire my sister sexually?"

That red yarn was wretched mercilessly between his fingers. I could see it being tugged as I sat red-faced in my chair. His cheeks reddened, too.

"Alex-xandra, is beautiful," he mumbled. "Very exquis- _nice_ to look at. But that's-s not all she is to me."

"How so?"

"I don't, I don't know."

"How?"

"She s-simply is-"

"Do you like her eyes?"

"Mhm."

"Her hair?"

"Mhm."

"Her face?"

"Mhm."

"Her body?"

No reply.

"Do you desire my sister sexually?"

"I do."

I could've lit a fire on my face. I felt as if I was about to combust from embarrassment, at the pure mortification I felt not only for myself, but for Mr. Dolarhyde as he shifted uneasily in the seat across from my sister while she jotted down his latest admission into a case note.

"Excellent," said Dom. "That's all for now. Do you have any more questions for me?"

"Mhm," said Dolarhyde.

"Go on."

"The time we were last in here, Dr. Chilton had Alexandra retrieve for him a red folder."

My sister frowned, yet nodded her head slowly at his statement.

"What, if I may ask, was in it?"

"Nothing noteworthy," Dom said to him. "Just the latest results on your bloodwork-"

"No."

Brooding.

Harsh.

His voice stopped her. Just like that. One word silenced my sister. I don't blame her silence though.

With eyes like his boring into her skull as they were, who could utter a sound?

"I said that if you lied to me, I would know, Dr. Ashe. Let's try this again, what was in the red folder?"

Even the severe eyes owned by my sister, those powerful things, even with all their persuasive might she could not will herself to return the stare of the man who sat idly across the table.

"I see," said Francis Dolarhyde with a slow nod. "I see now. Dr. Ashe, I know that despite what Dr. Chilton said, he, too, is a liar like you. Disgusting. You and he are one and the same."

Slowly, he lowered his head, lowered his face closer to the metal surface of the table so that his blue eyes could peer up into the downcast avoidance of my older sibling.

"If Dr. Chilton is so unafraid of me," he whispered. "If he is so brave, then how come he didn't turn around, Dr. Ashe? Why couldn't he look at me, Dr. Ashe?"

She didn't speak.

"Why couldn't he, Dr. Ashe?"

She didn't say a word.

"Why aren't you looking at me, Dr. Ashe?"

She swallowed.

"Are you afraid, Dr. Ashe?"

Her persistent quiet confirmed it. He leaned back into his initial posture.

"You are wise to be. Please dismiss me, and please do not address me as Francis ever again."

Mr. Dolarhyde rose from his place. The officer in the room was quick to order him to sit down, but Dom shook her head. She didn't say anything. She simply waved him away and slouched at the table.

Without wasting anymore time, I quickly left the observation room and ran to the elevator. My finger found the button I wanted on the panel, the one that would take me to the main lobby and back to the community service wing, but then, I changed my mind. Driven by ire, I pressed the button that would take me to one floor above the evaluation hall. I tapped my finger against my thigh as I waited impatiently for the door to open.

I had to jog across the floor to find the descending staircase. I was nearly breathless by the time I made it to the correct lobby.

The security desk near patient holding was empty. The officers, I guessed, were making sure that Francis was being transported without any fuss, getting word from my sister ahead of time regarding his mood. I hid in a janitorial closet near his room until I heard the heavy footfalls of the officers as they returned to their posts. After fifteen minutes, I slowly turned the knob and slipped through the doorway. Not a breath left me until I was standing right in front of his door, the door which I had entered time and time again these last several months. On the other side, I knew, was Francis Dolarhyde, the man who I was desperately longing to talk to.

With a forceful shove, I pushed through the door and sprinted across the room. In the corner of my eye, I saw Francis's alert eyes watch me as I stopped beneath the security camera. With one jump, I reached up and snatched the wires of the camera and yanked them out as I dropped. They snapped out of the sockets with ease.

As soon as I landed back on my feet, I whipped around and approached the bars to his cell.

"Why did you want to talk to my sister?" I questioned bitterly.

The man scrutinized me from my toes to my face before loudly scoffing.

"You were there," he said. "Behind the glass, I knew she was lying-"

"She didn't know I was there," I said. "I broke into the observation room. Now answer me. Why did you want to talk to my sister about me?"

"Because of the way you left," he said. "You were, you were not yourself. You were-"

"Yeah, I was upset, but that's none of your damn business!" I cried.

He flinched at my tone, but I ignored his reaction. I was on fire.

"It's not your business, Francis. It's not. No matter what you think, and what's worse is that you should have asked _me_ about it, not Dom. You have no right to ask about personal shit. That's not fair!"

At first, he simply blinked at me, but then, oh then a sneer curled on his lips, one that I've seen before.

"Not fair?" he mocked. "Not fair? I'm trying to figure out why you're here. I've been trying to understand for months as to why you are able to even see me. I'm trying to discover what it is that your sister is attempting to do with me, with you, and you are angered because of some high-horsed lack of _fairness_? Do not be childish, Alexandra. You're much better than that."

"Don't you dare tell me what I am and am not. You don't know me at all-"

"But I do. I know you, and you _hate_ it."

I gazed incredulously at the man before me, at how the anger I possessed spread like a wildfire and now burned hellishly in his eyes as well.

"But you don't-"

"I do."

"Prove it."

"You find your friends dramatic, from their romantic lives to their jobs, but you appreciate their humor and optimism, qualities that you believe you lack, but I dispute that belief wholeheartedly."

A frown pulled at my mouth as he continued without pause.

"You want to earn a graduate degree in Colorado, but you're worried about money. You're allergic to peanuts. You're happier on rainy days than on sunny ones, and we always start our talks about the weather because you're concerned about making me feel comfortable, but I'm past that now. You love dogs more than people, so you have claimed on more than one occasion. I don't know who sings it, but anytime you have music playing it's always the same song, the one about the singer losing his mind over a kiss. I'm guessing that's your favorite song. You're not a morning person, but you still arrive on time. You say you're an awful cook, but I disagree. You hate running as an exercise. You admire your sister. A lot. Too much."

"And you know me as well," he added with an empty laugh. "You are as manipulated as I am. Don't you see? Alexandra, do you see?"

"See what?"

"This was never about the Dragon," he stated. "Never has been."

Mr. Dolarhyde pointed to his temple.

"Your sister knows that the Dragon is still here. She knows, as does Dr. Chilton."

The sentences, I heard them. I absorbed what he was saying, but I still found myself shaking my head at the words.

"If, if not about the Dragon, then what is point?" I asked. "I don't understand."

"Us," he replied lowly. "You and me."

He took a step towards the bars. I stiffened as his hands reached out through them and to my face. Blue eyes beheld me like oncoming storms, silently asking for permission, to do what I wasn't sure. My response was to shut mine. I didn't want to see. They clenched when I felt the warmth of his hands cup my face, his fingers running gently through my hair before his palms settled softly on my cheeks.

"This right here is what she wants," he said.

"What?"

"Open your eyes."

Reluctantly, I did as he asked, taking in the sight of his face as it was mere inches from my own.

"A bond," he whispered. "A bond between an individual who suffered from attachment issues as a child and with an individual who suffered from an abusive attachment as an adult."

His breath was strangely sweet as he talked, like artificial mint.

"We're not the same-"

"We aren't," he agreed. "I prefer it that way."

"How, how do you know all of this?" I begged of him. "How could you possibly know this?"

His hands retreated back to his side of the barrier. Neither of us stepped away.

"Every therapist, psychologist, psychiatrist, reporter, social worker, and medical professional has inquired about my childhood," he said with a tinge of bitterness. "Your sister included."

"I know," I said. "You never discuss it. You refuse to talk about your childhood."

"I don't consider my past important."

"Why-"

"The importance lies not in who I was, but who I was Becoming," he said ruefully.

"Okay, whatever, but how else do you know this, Francis?"

His mouth turned into a firm line as his jaw clenched.

"Dr. Chilton," he said indignantly.

"Dr. Chilton? What did he say? When?"

"After the room cleared that day you cried, he came late at night and spoke with me. He told me everything. He said every event from your arrival, to our time together has been planned since the beginning. One way or another, your sister was going to make sure we met."

"What do you mean everything?"

A new somberness graced his features, filling his ocean eyes with a sadness that made me wary of anything more the man had to say to me.

"The letter," he said.

My eyes widened.

"No."

"The letter-"

"No, no, no-"

"-was addressed here because-"

"No-"

"-your sister gave him your address. Alexandra, I'm sorry."

I turned from Francis so that I could collect myself. I shuddered at such an idea, at such a breach of trust that extended past the professional fissure and into a realm of blood and genetics, into a past of playtime and childhood. A breach between siblings.

It was as if I could feel my heart literally tearing between its chambers.

"So," I mumbled.

I turned back to face Mr. Dolarhyde, whom I noticed had moved down the line of his cell to stand as close as he physically could to me. I half-smiled at his continued concern.

"I don't know what to do now," I said to him. "I don't know what to do with this information. Her study is beyond unethical, so much that even Dr. Chilton stepped away from it. She broke so many laws, violated our rights as patients slash human beings. God knows some of it has to be fabricated for the sake of being recognized by any journal, whatever her main goal is with this study."

"Can't blame her," I continued. I grinned slightly at the appearance of absurdity that spread across Francis's face, from his tight-knit brow to his parted lips. "It's a clever thought, really: How beautiful would it be if the desire to bond and feel absolutely safe overcame social prejudices and psychopathology? Capture bonding without the capture. Survival isn't an issue between us, only the want to not feel alone and the anxiety over dangers that are hundreds of miles away. We don't necessarily _need_ one another to live, but here we are. I'm friends with a serial killer. Dr. Chilton is absolutely correct. It is too late for me."

"Ha, even now!" I exclaimed. "Even now I feel bad for calling you a serial killer, at how I clearly upset you by saying that. But that's who you are. Here, at least. You are a man who knowingly suffers from a mental illness, who has killed as a result of it, and to a degree is completely okay with that, which I mean, is not to say I stigmatize you nor should you feel stigmatized, but-"

"I understand."

"Right? I know all of this, but I still feel bad. I'm not scared of you. At all. And that's insane."

"But you are afraid of the boy back home."

I swallowed and shut my eyes. His face started to form in my head, but I quickly dispersed the thought into a million pieces.

"I am," I admitted. "I still am. I have dreams, you know. They're awful."

"Dreams can be alarming, but they are just dreams."

"I just don't want to feel like a victim anymore," I said. "That's how I feel. I still feel like I'm locked in that cellar in his backyard. Just waiting around and crying all the time."

"It's because he's still out there."

"I suppose. I don't know. I just, I don't know."

For a few moments, neither of us said anything. It felt nice. The silence wasn't awkward. It was the accepted quiet between two people who let it be, each of us burrowed deep in our thoughts as we swayed lightly beneath the single bulb in the room.

I couldn't imagine that I would be here. Should someone had warned me months ago that I would be talking to the Tooth Fairy Killer-no, I don't like that title. To Francis Dolarhyde, yeah that's better. If someone had said that I would be speaking with Francis in the way that we have been conversing, jokes and the culture of Hong Kong, I wouldn't believe it. I would dismiss such a claim the moment it entered the air. Yet, there I was.

"I just don't know what my next move should be," I thought aloud. "I can't stay here forever, but I can't go home. And my "internship" will be over soon, so then what?"

Francis pondered on, his eyes distantly gazing at some forlorn thought. Then, they lifted to pour into my own.

"You should go home," he told me.

I frowned.

"I can't," I said. "Clayton is-"

"I'd like to meet him."

And to this day, I swear on my life that I saw something that very, very few people on this earth had ever witnessed. I saw such a thing again and again and again.

Francis Dolarhyde smiled.

* * *

 **So I've been wondering already about the ending of this story. I know how it ends (duh), but I'm curious about the idea of one-shots. This story will not be a chapter-esque work. It will be a stand-alone, and I will not write about Alexandra and Francis in another work. Ever. I refuse. Personally, I loathe those. I don't like it when there's a "Book one, book two" style here. Let a story die a good death. But, I do enjoy it when authors do multiple epilogues, little snippets of the characters' lives after the end. Ha, maybe they're not letting the story die either, but I prefer that idea over the former.**

 **Thoughts? Should I write snippety one-shots after _Fervor_ is all said and done? A little early for such thinking, I know, but I'm already itching to write another story sometime soon.**


	8. Chapter 8

"I can't. Like, I'm really trying my best here, and I can't. Oh-"

"You're okay-"

"Um, clearly not!"

"You're-"

"No, no, no, no, no, no!"

"I'm here-"

"No, you're letting go! You're letting go, and I'm going to fall over and bust a knee cap or something stupid-"

"Shhh."

"Don't 'shhh' me-Oh, oh my God."

To the passerby, the sight would be an odd one to behold. Within a concrete space about half the length of a basketball court, one with no windows, a lone metal door, blank walls, and with bright, fluorescent lights protected by steel cages stood one man and one woman. The man wore a jump suit that's top half was down and tied to his waist, a white undershirt, Velcro tennis shoes, and a suppressed, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. The woman whose long, dark hair was tied back by an elastic, was being hovered over by the tall man near one of the room's walls. She stood not on her feet, but on her hands with palms pressing down into the concrete ground. Her tennis shoes pointed, or rather attempted to point, straight into the air while her arms balanced her weight shakily between her shoulders. Reddened cheeks and wide fearful eyes completed her ensemble of Nike shorts and t-shirt, the workout clothes that saw more labor and sweat than the woman had ever anticipated for that morning.

"Am I doing it?" I cried.

The burning in my deltoids and triceps made me tremble as I tried to maintain position. My body was on the verge of collapse.

"Mm, sorta."

So supportive, I thought while scoffing loudly.

"Ugh," I groaned in defeat. "Whatever."

The soles of my shoes gently pushed off of the wall, tumbling my balance forward.

As expected, one of Francis's arms shot out and carefully supported me as I fell. With ease, he lowered me to the floor, a quiet success in insuring that my knee caps were indeed kept safe. I didn't have it in me to thank him though. I was far too flustered.

"I give up! No, no I don't. Ugh, I don't want to try anymore."

The man beside me said nothing, the fret caught in the deep furrow between his Atlantic eyes.

A simple thought: Have Francis teach me something that I didn't know much about. Exercise seemed to be the most obvious subject, considering how many times I've walked in on him either in the middle of his routine or at the tail end, sweat beading down his face and cell heated by his efforts. I thought I was brilliant. Francis didn't say respond much when I first proposed my idea. Shocker. He simply stared while he weighed the pros and cons on the scales of that shrouded mind of his. I presumed that he thought my offer a joke, but then eventually he agreed, albeit with some perplexity and a muted glint of amusement in his eyes.

I'm active enough, I thought dazedly. I run a few times a week, am careful about what I eat. If anything I look like I work out, so sure, exercising with Francis shouldn't be too arduous or embarrassing.

Oh.

 _Oh_ , how wrong I was.

What started out as a fun idea to bond with Francis Dolarhyde quickly digressed into an exhausting challenge. After we finished what he called a "warm up", a hellish cavalcade of sprints, laps, and never-ending endurance exercises, I came to deeply regret my idea. Lunges, down and backs, push-ups, sit-ups, planks, burpees, you name it, I did it. Forget about hydration. The security officers stated that I wasn't allowed to bring in a water bottle because of safety protocols, so that was swell. And did Francis let me rest? Maybe. Ten second breaks if I was lucky. Then it was back to running, twisting, bending, straining. By the time I attempted Francis's iconic handstand some eighty minutes later, I was beyond done.

"It's just you make it look so easy," I whined from the floor. "I've seen you do it so many times and I guess, I don't know, I guess I thought that I could do it, too. God."

With pride in his eyes, subtle pride and nothing grossly cocky, Mr. Dolarhyde proceeded to bend over at the waist. My eyes rolled at the sight. Carefully, the man shifted his weight to his confident hands. I wanted to ignore him. I did, yet despite walking in on him doing it countless times or seeing the process from start to finish, the view always stirs within me a feeling of pure awe. The length of him. God. All six foot something of his strong, taught body, rose and stood tall in the air like a monolith. He was looking at me, I could feel it. From below his long lashes, his eyes were on me. I chose to stare at my toes.

A moment later, I heard him grunt and stand on his feet again. The body heat burning off of the man tingled my skin as he casually sat beside me on the floor.

"Took practice," he said quietly. "Lots."

"Yep, I bet."

A sigh.

"Alexandra-"

"Let's just try again," I proposed.

I stood up again, ignoring my muscles' plea to stop. Blood rushed to my head, making the world tilt ever so slightly.

"No," he grumbled.

"Yes."

"No."

I frowned.

"What do you mean "No"?" I asked. "Come on, coach. Put me in."

"We've done enough. Let's rest."

" _You've_ done nothing," I countered. "I'm over here sweating and hot, and you're not even red in the face."

"I'm hot."

"A little, yes, but don't try and lie to me and say that you got your workout in. I mean, you don't even get to run out here, and I'm the one about to keel over. Don't lie. I know that you're going easy on me, Francis."

Something small. A laugh?

"I am," he told me. "Just a little though."

"Okay then. Right, so let's keep going."

Steel eyes studied me briefly as the humor faded. I was getting so used to him, to his silent giveaways. The small clues of his personality slipping through like sunlight at the bottom of a door. The way his mouth rested on his face, the way his skin pulled and tightened around his eyes, splinters of age and lines of past joy and sorrow. Little things. Nothing too obvious. What Francis did not, could not say in words, his body expressed in the most delicate of ways.

Thoughts filtered through those cool eyes before he shut them slowly. Francis then surprised me, something he still managed to do every now and again, and proceeded to lie down on the floor, a heavy exhale leaving him.

"I don't want to," he said. "I'm done for the day."

I scoffed.

"Francis, we have at least thirty more minutes to use this room, and then you have to go back to your cell."

"Mhm."

"So you're telling me that you want to spend those precious thirty minutes just laying on the floor? Doing nothing?"

"Mhm."

I rolled my eyes again. Such a bizarre thing to be having such a casual conversation with a devastatingly dangerous human being. Yet, there I was, huffing and puffing in the proximity of a person who could easily kill me before the guards could do a thing about it. While standing there in the moment though, the understanding never reached me. Only later would I marvel at the times that I was with Francis and felt absolutely safe. Absolutely fine.

Seeing how relaxed he was and that he wasn't going to elaborate, I let out a final sigh and proceeded to join him on the floor. The chill of the ground soothed my body through my clothes, the sensation sending a shiver up my spine as the back of my thighs met the surface. Without much thought, I lifted my shirt up a bit and allowed my lower back and stomach to cool. Satisfied, my eyes, too, shut.

Moments ticked by. Neither of us said a word. It wasn't until I turned my head to look at him did I see that Francis was staring blankly up at the ceiling.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked in a whisper.

"Cameras-s."

Laying side by side, I couldn't help but memorize every aspect of the body next to mine. His muscles, the way his clothes fell and clung to the curves and corners of his frame. The steady movements of his breathing. The rhythm of his pulse as it beat on his neck. Lightly flushed, his skin smelt like sweat and something else, an unnamable smell that wasn't bad, but was still capable of capturing my attention. Something very human. A man.

"What about them?"

"If they're really off or not."

Eyes drifted to the corner of the gym. Though the red light was dead, I, too, wondered about the truthfulness in my sister's voice when she told me that the session with Francis would indeed be completely private. My eyes returned to his. His remained above.

"Maybe," I said. "Maybe not. Dom said they would be off though."

"She knows you know."

"I know."

He almost smiled.

"I know you know she knows you know," he said, this time letting a grin touch his lips for a second. It quickly weakened. "But, what does that mean?"

"It means nothing."

"You're not even supposed to be here. Your interns-ship-"

"Is over. Yes. Technically."

"She can't do anything if she values her experiment," I continued. "Dom won't. She'd risk losing results. Risk not seeing how things play out. And it's not like I killed a man. I saw him this morning at the desk up front."

"All that drama to yell at me," said Francis.

"Well, yeah. I was really pissed off."

"You were."

I smiled.

"Oh hell," I breathed while giving his shoulder a nudge. "Let's just accept that with you right now in this room like this, I'm happy."

Not a good feeling. It should've been. What I said I thought was quite sweet, but the feeling it left behind was like a bad aftertaste in the mouth.

My words hung in the air as a silence fell between us. It wasn't the good kind though. Not the silence that I grew to adore from a shy man like Mr. Dolarhyde. This quiet felt awkward. Uncomfortable, like an itch. I can't really explain it, but it did. Maybe it was because I had wanted him to say something, to agree that he, too, was content. A little part of me, an insecure part, longed to hear him say so. I didn't even get a "Mhm."

Frowning, I peered up through my lashes. Those eyes, blue like the sea and just as mysterious, were still fixed on the lights above us. Blinking. Distant.

"What are you thinking about now?" I asked. "Cameras, still?"

His lips moved to speak, but he hesitated.

"Mm, no," he settled. "No, I'm, I'm not. Not exactly."

"Oh."

That next time, that next pause, was excruciating. It stung my cheeks and narrowed my eyes. The loudest sound in the room save for the humming of the lights was our breathing. I could hear us. In and out. In and out. His breaths weren't like mine though. They were different. His breaths sounded more shallow, like he was trying his best to control them. I couldn't take it. Take the quiet. I had to know.

On impulse, I sat up and leaned over the broad frame of the man beside me. Our arms brushed as I moved, a ghosting softness like velvet. An innocent skin on skin. We were lying closer, closer than I realized. And as his breath grazed my cheeks, the air somehow felt hotter than before.

Intimate. Familiar.

What a mistake.

The moment I leaned over his body, I wished I hadn't.

One of his hands swiftly left his side and splayed itself against my chest. It rested just below my clavicle, firm and controlling. I stilled instantly. My voice caught. His fingertips curled into my shirt, a small massage before they halted.

Blue eyes flickered between my hand and my face, as if he, too, was unsure as to what was happening.

"Please lay down."

Gently.

Kindly.

It was the most fragile voice I had ever heard.

"Please," he pleaded. "Please do that for me."

And while I stared down at the man, at how scared he became from the opportunity of closeness that I had unconsciously offered up, a new emotion grew in my chest. An emotion, that, for some reason, I decided to give into. I let it in like a flood.

"No," I said to him. "No, I won't."

Tightly clenched, his eyes closed and his teeth ground.

"P-Pleas-se," he murmured. "Please-"

"Francis-"

"N-no."

"Look."

"No."

"Look at me."

Even though his hand remained against my chest, I did not move. He had tried to block me, but I stayed. I hovered over him, over the distraught being whose eyes were closed off from my curiosity.

But, slight, small and slight his eyes began to open in incremental spaces. Those ocean eyes gazed up at my face, open and full of so much hesitation, so much uncertainty that it looked like he didn't believe me to be real. He appraised me with those anxious eyes. I felt holy.

"What are you so scared of?" I asked him in a hushed voice. In an effort to lighten the mood, I added, "I thought we were past all the drama."

Looking anywhere but on my face, I saw his thoughts swimming in the blue pools that were his eyes. Francis swallowed before speaking.

"I-I want to do things."

Another swallow.

"Do things to you," he finished.

Meticulously, I went over every feature of Francis's face, from his intelligent, blue eyes to the way a twitch flicked the scar on his lip.

"Do things," I echoed lowly. I then frowned. "Bad things?"

Mr. Dolarhyde didn't respond. Only glanced away. I tilted my head back a bit, mildly put off.

"Do you still want to hurt me, Francis? Are you serious? After all this time, you still want to hurt me?"

Something of sadness filled his eyes. An old sadness. A sadness that's been built upon for decades. The emotion was so strong in them, so raw, that for when they returned to me, stormy and with heavy mirth, the shock that tightened my chest softened immediately at seeing them.

"No."

Small. Feeble.

Like confession.

"I, I don't want to hurt you, Alexandra."

The hand that I had forgotten about, the calloused one resting against the center of my chest, snaked slowly up my neck to gently cup my cheek. Every nerve ending in my body seemed to go to my face, the subtle contact that was electric on my skin.

"But," continued Francis.

Direct. Fierce. His eyes seemed to darken, to change.

"But I do want to do things to you. Bad things. Things that aren't appropriate and would be considered lewd in the presence of cameras."

Speechless. My mind collapsed altogether.

I was still silent as his thumb ever so casually ran itself over my lower lip. His eyes followed the motion, watched as I parted my lips under his touch.

But just as unexpected as it all had happened, it was over.

Francis let go of my cheek and moved from his place beside me. Knees popping, he stood tall and turned towards the entrance to the gym space.

His steps padded away from me, the only indication to how the man was feeling being the rigidity of his shoulders as he stalked towards the heavy, metal door. With his fist, Francis banged on the door twice. Waited. He did not turn around as the telling clanks of the door's mechanism shift on the other side.

"See you soon," I say quietly.

Later I would rebuke myself for saying that, but what the hell was I to say? I felt like a tourist who didn't know the lay of the land. Some idiot abroad.

I knew he heard me. I caught him glance over one shoulder.

"See you soon," he says.

* * *

 **Thanks for all of your kind words and support. Much appreciated.**

 **Happy reading, TCR**


	9. Chapter 9

Don't get me wrong. I'm not stupid. I acknowledge what she's done, what she has started in my life for me. She's cunning. She's ruthless. She used me for academic gain, but I don't hate my sister. I don't, and some deep-rooted, familial part of me that I embrace and detest feels that I never will. I don't know. I don't have it in me to hate Dom, even after finding out her true intentions of my time spent in St. Louis.

Although I could write a list of possible reasons as to why I refuse to hate my sister, one reason stands out amongst the rest. I can picture it in my head, clear as day. Vivid. Unforgettable.

If Hell had eyes, a nose, and a mouth to speak, it would be worn by my older sister the day I returned home after being recovered from Clayton's basement. I watched her transform from my spot on the couch in my parents' living room. Her emotions started with her mouth, those full lips rounding into an 'o' from the shock, then a hard line, and finally a snarled pucker of pure rage. The emotion spread like wild fire to the rest of her features, lighting her eyes ablaze with her violent mirth and toxic thoughts. She didn't say a word for a whole minute.

Such a moment, so simple sounding and quiet, stuck in the folds of my memories. Ever since that day, it's always been there, that picture of my sister's reaction the day I was saved by my father. As if on cue, my sister's face will rush to the front of my mind with all the emotions associated with it, and whatever resentment I was feeling towards her, whether petty or not, would dissipate. Just like that. I would find forgiveness in me, and move on from the issue.

I had her face in mind, the snarl and comet eyes, when I sat with Dom in her office the day after the gym incident.

No cameras. She had promised me that. My sister made that promise to me that there would be no cameras while I was with Francis in the gym, and I had yet to hear a peep about it since it happened. Not a single word or mention of him, his behavior, anything. The problem though is that while I watched Dom glancing papers, signing documents, and occasionally smiling up at me as I sat across from her in her office, I knew that she was not as she seemed. I pictured her rage towards my ex-boyfriend, and the starving curiosity that was her unethical genius.

She's a double-edged sword, my sibling. A frightening thing.

"What'cha thinkin' about?" she prompted.

Pulled from my mental reverie, I quickly blinked myself to the present moment.

"Nothing," I said. And then a beat later, "Just about home."

"Like here-home or Colorado-home?"

"Colorado-home. I miss it."

"Gotcha. Well, don't worry. Your internship's almost over."

I sucked in a breath.

"It technically is over," I told her. "It ended a few days ago."

"Yeah, I know," she said breezily. "But I figured that you would like a little extra time. You know, considering that you had to miss some because of your anxiety."

Dom still wasn't looking at me. Her hand was jotting down some information on a case note while the other clicked the mouse tab on her laptop.

"I just miss the atmosphere in Colorado," I continued. "The mountains. How comfortable I was. That's all."

"Don't blame you. It took months for me to get used to Missouri, but I'd call it home now. What made you think of Colorado?"

"Nothing in particular," I said. Another intake of breath. "Just getting that letter, that thing from Clayton."

Her pen stilled.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Sorta forgot about him until I got it in the mail."

"How does that make you feel?"

I suppressed the overwhelming need to roll my eyes.

"It was off-putting," I said stiffly. "Definitely unexpected."

"Did it trigger your anxiety that day? The letter?"

"I guess. Yeah, yeah it did."

"Huh," she said simply as her hand started to write more. "Well, just a reminder: You don't have to worry about Clayton getting to you here, or back at home for that matter."

"I know. The restraining order."

"Yep."

"And I have people to talk about it with."

"Yep."

"I have you, Henry, Dr. Chilton, and Francis."

Her writing stopped again.

"Dolarhyde?" she questioned.

Those eyes that were so much like my own lifted from her page and focused intently on my face, moving in the slightest to assess every little detail of my features as if they held the secret to the universe in every pore.

Too easy, I thought.

"Yeah, he's been real supportive," I answered her. "He says that I should go home."

"Like, to leave?"

A slight shrug of the shoulder.

"Yeah. Sort of."

The polished pen that rested in my sister's hand was set aside. Fingers laced, Dom leaned forward a bit as she gave me her full attention. Her eyes were like black holes.

"Francis doesn't come off as the supportive type to me," said my sister casually, as if Francis were some mutual friend of ours. "Did he offer this insight on his own?"

"I think so. Sorry, I don't remember how it came up. I think I was talking about missing home with him, too."

"And then he suggested you try and go back? Just like that, even after knowing about Clayton?"

"He did. He did seem a little bothered though-"

"About what?"

"Clayton."

"Ah."

"He seemed, I don't know, agitated? Has he said anything to you about it?"

A soft jab. We both knew the answer to that one.

"No," she said flatly. "He hasn't mentioned it. So, Alexandra…"

The change of tone perked my ears. The clinical voice in all its professionalism warmed a bit, the sisterly side of her that I knew Dom saved special just for me. In those rare moments, she seemed human. The day I returned home, those wild expressions, flashed in my head. She's human. I almost forgot that she was while in St. Louis. I almost felt bad about it.

"I know that what I'm about to say is going to sound really stupid," continued Dom. "But I need to know that you're looking at things correctly. So can you take me seriously? Please?"

"Um, yeah. Sure."

Her tongue wet her lips before she swallowed. I felt a steady nervousness start to crawl up the back of my neck.

"I need you to remember that Francis Dolarhyde is not a good man, Al. He's dangerous. He's manipulative. He's very, very sick. I know that he's made progress since you've been here. Tremendous progress, in fact. But that doesn't change that he's struggling with a dangerous mental illness."

"He has DID. That doesn't mean-"

"Jesus," she hissed with bright eyes. They rolled. "You think that's all that's on his intake form? A dissociative disorder? Al, come on. Francis Dolarhyde believes, actually believes that he was, er, _is_ the vessel for some organic, higher power! He believed that spilling the blood of innocent people would empower him, make him untouchable. Do you understand that?"

I scoffed and shook my head at her words, but my sister only walked around her desk to stand nearer to me.

"He hears things, Al," she said fiercely. "Voices. He said that the Dragon growls at him late at night, that it, it whispers threats to him whenever he starts following the rules of whatever hospital he's placed at. That's why he's been moved around so much, because Francis is going by whatever that voice he thinks he hears tells him to do. He's not DID. He's Paranoid Schizophrenic. Textbook."

Staring at her with disdain, I couldn't quite form the words I needed to say how I felt. I was not short of feelings. I was riddled with them. Feelings of anger, confusion, dread. Nothing pleasant, and nothing that truly satisfied the ache in my chest.

"But you, but you and Dr. Chilton said that he was DID. You two said that to me-"

"We did. And we lied."

A lump was starting to form in my throat. The room felt hotter.

"But why?" I asked of her. "Why did you lie about that? What good could that possibly serve, lying to me?"

"Because we needed to," she said matter-of-factly. "We needed you to look at him in a less severe light-"

"Less severe?" I mocked. "Because I would think of him differently believing that he might have a stray personality and not hear voices? That his auditory hallucinations somehow trump his status as a serial killer?"

"To me and everyone at this facility, you were able to look past his killings without much of a problem," stated Dom coolly. "Admit it, you were fine sharing space with him after your little night visit to his cell. "The Tooth Fairy Killer, he doesn't seem so bad. He's just a timid man behind metal bars. Carries string around as a coping mechanism. He doesn't seem threatening." You know why, Alexandra? Want to know why he comes off so shy towards you, so reserved?"

She leaned closer.

"He's playing you," said Dom. "He has been playing you since day one, and you fell for it."

My fingers tightly gripped the back of one of Dom's chairs, my nails digging into the cushion.

"What could he possibly gain from playing me?" I asked.

"I don't know. I don't know what he wants of you. He's admitted to being physically attracted to you. Maybe that's enough."

"I know that he's sick, Dom-"

"Yeah, but I don't think you _truly_ know, Alex. Here, I need you to watch something."

When I almost rolled my eyes at her, she added a firm, "Please."

Deep down inside me, I was wary. I was haunted by a fear that was pitiful in nature, pitiful because it was rooted in the childish dread of being wrong. But I knew better. I knew I had to watch whatever Dom wanted to show me.

The laptop was placed directly in front of my chair. Dom brought up a new window after clicking through some video files, the date on the time stamp reading a little short of a year ago. The quality wasn't great. My eyes narrowed as I took in the scene.

A large pan of a holding cell, much like the one that I met Francis in. This one, however, lacked bars and appeared to be a single room with a wide, metal door and a wired, glass window inside it.

It was so dark that at first I didn't see him, but crouched down in the corner of the frame, I could see his feet. Pale, bare things that the light from the hall illuminated. I squinted. His toes were clenched.

Just as I was about to ask Dom what she was showing me, I heard his voice. Of course I recognized his voice. I could never forget it now. Ingrained.

"Are you satisfied?"

Low.

My heart fluttered at its sound.

"Are you happy now?" he said hoarsely with more volume. "They _got_ you and will _enslave_ you, and there is nothing that I nor you can do about it, you weak, piteous insect of a man."

A body, tall and lean, rose from the floor, and from the darkness it stood in the light of the window. A tower of a man, Francis's form wasn't as broad as it was several months later, but his strength was not in question. Not one bit. Even with poor video quality, I could make out the outline of his deltoids and the girth of his thighs.

"I tried-"

"Tried? Tried? Don't make excuses to me."

Hands lifted to hold his head together, pressing hard with his palms. I've seen that one before.

"Shut up!" he shouted, his palm striking his face. "Shut your damn mouth."

Despite myself, I leaned closer to the computer, my attention satiated by this bizarre spectacle. He was alone. Absolutely by himself, yet he was having a complete conversation with another being. Swapping between personalities. The way he stood. Slouching, then to a straight spine with each bit of dialogue. The voice altered as well, and that was probably the most disturbing part. I heard him, Francis, but in a way I heard another person, someone reverent with authority. Someone angry.

"You got caught," said a sinister voice, each word spoken through gritted teeth. "You were beaten by Will Graham and that traitor, that devil. I knew he couldn't help us-"

"He did! He did help us-"

"Shut up!"

Another smack to the face, this time coupled with his fingers fisting his hair and yanking down.

"He did not help us," he said darkly. "Hannibal Lecter betrayed you and because of your weak mind, your stupid, impotent self, you will rot here. You will wither and fade into nothing but bones, and there is no one, no one to blame but yourself. I am absolutely disgusted-"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Wet, heavy sobs echoed in his room, the cries filled with heaving gaps of sorrow.

Still, the Dragon managed to get out a parting message. His voice rumbled in the room.

"I hope you are, Francis," he gurgled up through his tears. "I hope you are sorry for the rest of your life."

The footage stopped after that. The frame stilled at the sight of Francis crumbled on the floor. His hysterical cries reverberated in my mind.

"When exactly was that recorded?" I asked my sister.

"That was the first night he was detained in Buffalo, after he recovered in the hospital. While over there, he was restrained with sedatives on average about three times a day. Deemed unfit for group therapy settings. Aggressive during any form of individualized therapy. And that was before he bit off an orderly's face."

"So what's your point?"

Her frame straightened at my tone.

"I mean, he's mentally ill," I elaborated.

"Obviously."

"I get that. What I don't get is how you, a counselor and psychiatrist for the mentally ill, someone who is so concerned about others who are emotionally disturbed lacks so much empathy that she is clinging to labels to justify her own narrow-mindedness and-"

"That's what you think this is about? I'm just "narrow-minded"-"

"Yes!" I cried. "That's just part of your problem, but yeah!"

"Are you serious?"

"Do I sound not serious, Dom?"

My sister shook her head, her eyes brightening with her anger. I felt it, too. A fight was coming on.

"Francis Dolarhyde is a murderer," she stated. "A _murderer._ He has massacred families. Children, he shot children in their bedrooms. He kidnapped a blind woman and set his house on fire with her still inside, and you're telling me that I am misguided in my thoughts on his mental health, that I am in some way stigmatizing him? You have got some nerve to think that you know what you're doing, Alexandra. You're barely out of Undergrad, and here you think you understand a man like Francis Dolarhyde? Wow. Please tell me your infinite wisdom, how you connect to him on some sentient level because I'm all ears. I'm all ears to hear how you cracked the code to understanding his mind."

Tears smarted at my eye lids, but I refused to let them fall. I looked up at the ceiling in fury, in pure scorn towards Dom.

"Then why am I here?" I rasped.

I chanced a look at her face. It was completely unreadable.

"Why am I here?" I repeated with more certainty. "If I'm so off the mark, then say it. Tell me why, and don't you dare lie to me."

As her eyes looked into my own, I saw her steel herself. Like stone, her facial features hardened.

"You know why you're here-"

"I need you to say it," I snapped. "You owe me that much. You do. You owe me."

Dom lifted her chin at that. Her shoulders squared and her eyes glanced to the side, avoiding my scrutiny.

"I required a subject for a research study that I was conducting with Dr. Chilton," she said quietly. Her voice lacked the vigor it possessed a moment ago. Weaker. Somber. "The subject needed to be female, and one who experienced a traumatic event in the last six months."

A tightness in my chest, one that I never truly noticed before, loosened immensely to the point of rapture at hearing Dom's confession. The more she spoke, the better I felt. The anger was still there though.

"The hypothesis was that dependency could be formed between two trauma victims despite severe negative variables, differences in age, and differences in when said traumas occurred in each victim's life."

"Severe negative variables," I echoed darkly. "Say, like having the reputation of a serial killer? A necrophiliac."

She nodded once. Heat flooded my skin.

"And then what? You, you were just going to see how long we lasted in each other's company until one of us decided to just off the other-"

"No, I-"

"-Or I became so dependent that I couldn't distinguish reality from the fiction that would be our "bond", that I would become some sick-minded groupie like those girls on the internet?"

"No-"

"Then what!" I shouted. "How long would you keep me here to play out your little experiment, Dom? Huh? A couple more weeks? Months? Jesus, what would Mom and Dad have to say? Or Henry? Not that their opinion matters at all because you and I both know that there is no way, no way in Hell that any respectable journal is going to publish your results. No one would and you know it. So why did you bother? Why is this happening to me-"

My wavering voice was cut off by the ringing of Dom's office phone. It rang and rang, but neither of us moved. Her eyes glanced towards her desk.

"Don't you dare," I hissed.

I saw her jaw clench, but despite how hard I glared at my sister, I was ultimately ignored. Dom left our conversation and answered the phone, her brow furrowing at the caller.

"Right, I'm on my way," she said calmly into the receiver before hanging up.

As she straightened her blouse, she told me, "There's an incident with a patient in the other building. I have to go." As if she cared for me, she added, "It's not Francis. Someone else."

My eyes stayed fixated on the floor in front of me. Without a word, Dom passed me and left the office. She shut the door behind her.

As soon as it clicked shut, I sat down in one of the chairs, my hands immediately rising to hold my head. It was out there, I told myself. Good. She knows I know. That's good. I guessed. I settled. I sighed heavily through my lips as a headache started to churn in my skull, as tears smarted at my lash line again.

Why did it matter at this point? So I knew? So what? I could report it. That would be the obvious move for someone in my position to make. Right? Huh. No. That's too obvious. Dom knew I could do that, but she's letting me, so there must be a step she had in place just in case I went that route. Paranoid? Yep. Oh, of course I was.

Lifting my eyes from the floor, I glanced at the desk. Piles of paperwork and folders stacked themselves in some form of collective chaos, as well as her laptop that still held the scene of Francis in his cell for my eyes to gaze at. I closed the computer, sick of the image.

Knowing that my sister would be gone for a while, I decided to leave. My internship or whatever I was doing at the facility would have to be put on pause. I would call in sick. Dom would know the truth. Duh. She'd leave me be. She better because after an argument like that, I was in no state to talk to anyone for the rest of the day.

God, I couldn't face Francis. Nope. He didn't deserve my mood, and I didn't have it in me to talk about Dom or anything for that matter. I think he'd understand. I contemplated his reaction while running my fingers through my hair. I would have dwelled on him a little more, but then I thought of my sister's hypothesis and Francis was shut away in a box for another time.

I didn't know when I'd open it, that box. As pathetic as it sounded, deep down I knew that I was a hypocrite. I grilled Dom on her ethics, on her lack of empathy for her patient, but now that I thought about it, did my own views on who Francis was change? Did hearing about his true diagnosis, seeing that security tape of his psychosis sway my perception of who he is, who he has been to me? I mean, I've always been aware of his crimes. Since the beginning, I kept a small line of fear in check, fingering their faces and names like a rosary, but despite this, I knew that what Dom said was true. I really didn't think about what he did.

It didn't really matter.

But why? Shouldn't it have mattered? To me, shouldn't I have cared?

Did I diminish his past in favor of the present?

Did I ignore his crimes, his disorder, the darker side of his mind because I didn't want to see it all?

And in the end, as much as I hated to contemplate, has Francis been manipulating me this whole time?

No, shut the box. Seal it tight and save it for later. I needed a bath, a drink. I needed to leave and clear my head.

As I gathered my belongings in my sister's office, I noticed something peeking out from beneath the paperwork on her desk. It was subtle. I don't really know how it caught my attention at all. I guess it was the red, how it stood out amongst the white paper and manila. But it was there. I saw it, the red folder from so many months ago, the one that Dr. Chilton had requested for me to bring into his first session he had with Francis. I pulled it out from the pile, and I saw the scribble on the folder's label. It was the same one, I remembered. Labeled with Francis's ID tag and with a date. Felt just as light, too, as I held it in my hand.

Francis had said to my sister that he knew what was inside it. Dom said that it held the results of his bloodwork tests. He called her a liar.

I knew Dom was a liar. I now knew that she had been lying this whole time, that my internship was a sham to her. Everything has been false and I had been used by my own older sibling. But I also knew that Francis Dolarhyde was a sick man, that his mind was buzzing with chemical disarray, and that he was delusional to the point of killing other people. I knew that he was dangerous and capable of hurting me. I knew that he had inappropriate thoughts, that to some degree he found me attractive.

The weight of the folder seemed to increase the longer I stood there. I felt the paper beneath the pad of my thumb.

Do I look?

Should I see?

I flipped the front cover open to see the truth, to have some shred of sanity regifted to me. My eyes fell on the papers inside.

I don't know what I was hoping for.

It never came.

The papers were blank.

* * *

 **My goodness, it has been awhile! And I do apologize for that, really I do. I have no new excuses. They're all the same, but I am glad to have finished this chapter today as it has sat pretty much complete for a few months. I did one last revision, and well, here we are.**

 **I want to make some empty promise to do better, to have chapters out sooner, but the fact is that I will simply do my best to finish this story at whatever pace I can, and nothing more. Congratulations to fiction writers who promise their readers to send out a chapter each week and deliver. Kudos to them because I couldn't imagine doing so in between work, relationships, and whatever else entails a fruitful life. Writing to me has always been an escape, and selfish or not, I write for myself and only myself. I write what floods my mind and of the plot twists that knot up my day dreams. True, I enjoy reading Reviews and hearing that strangers like where my imagination takes me. I like knowing that I'm not the only person who enjoys the story. In the end, however, I don't take special requests from users seriously. I ignore PMs from people who ask me to change the direction of the plot so that their own thirst of an outcome can be satiated.**

 **Don't like my ending?**

 **Good, create your own.**

 **How would you fix it?**

 **How would you make it more organic?**

 **What direction does your own mind take the story?**

 **I encourage anyone to write what they wish, to make a world from their mind and let it travel to their fingertips. I encourage anyone to go a different direction just for fun, to create his or her own conclusions and put them out there, not for praise, but simply for the joy of making something out of his or her own imaginings. It takes practice to say what you mean and to articulate the details of fantasy into something readable. But when you do, oh, how fun it is.**

 **My rant is over. Thanks for reading. What I can promise is that I will finish this story. I'm sick of reliving its ending in my mind. I need to get it out.**

 **Best, TCR**


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